


The Impossible Word

by SilentAuror



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Case Fic, Drunk Sex, Infidelity, M/M, POV: Sherlock Holmes, Pining!Sherlock, Porn, affair, post-series 3, series 3 fix-it, set immediately after HLV, so much porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-23
Updated: 2014-11-23
Packaged: 2018-02-26 18:56:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 30,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2662748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilentAuror/pseuds/SilentAuror
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A pub night with the Yard turns into a large-scale mistake, one that will threaten to destroy Sherlock's friendship with John forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Impossible Word

**The Impossible Word**

 

“Night!” Lestrade calls after them, belching not very subtly into his collar, his arm slung around Dimmock’s shoulder. Probably still clueless as to the state of Dimmock’s completely obvious crush, Sherlock thinks, rolling his eyes, but it turns out that rolling his eyes make the dizziness worse. 

John is laughing and Sherlock has no idea what has caused his laughter, but even as he opens his mouth to ask, John points, clutching his side. Sherlock looks. At the side of the pavement, Donovan is being leaned up against one of the cruisers by a beefy sergeant named Something Wilson (Sarah? Samantha? Susan? No, that’s Donovan. Georgiana? No, really no idea) and giggling as said sergeant says apparently racy things in her ear. Sherlock is momentarily surprised; he’d not foreseen _this_. The pair present an odd image, indeed, and he understands why John is laughing. Then he realises that John is also filming it, which makes it immediately ten thousand times better. The mileage they will be able to get from this will last for _years_. 

He’s laughing, too, and John’s video will be rubbish because the phone is shaking and his high-pitched giggle will drown out any other sound. “Donovan!” Sherlock calls. 

She ignores him. Something Wilson makes a rude gesture in his direction. “Sod off, freak,” she grunts. 

“Wave to the camera, Donovan!” Sherlock calls back, and that gets a response. 

John grabs his arm and they flee with Donovan in angry pursuit, shouting things about deleting or something, doesn’t matter, and there’s a cab, oh good, and they’re falling into it and he _really_ should not have drunk so much, perhaps, but giggling with John in the back of a cab is too good to waste, after the past six months. It’s the first time they’ve had a chance to do anything fun, to laugh together again, since he was nearly sent off to die somewhere in Serbia two weeks ago. Times like this have been few and far between. The hangover will be worth it. 

They laugh all the way to Baker Street and stagger up the stairs. Later Sherlock will realise that he has no idea which of them paid, or how. Or if. (It doesn’t matter.) John pulls his jacket off and throws it on the floor, then kicks his shoes off in different directions before charging into the kitchen to fill two tea mugs with whiskey. “Get ice,” he orders, and Sherlock ambles happily over to the freezer to see if there are any ice cubes after taking off his suit jacket. Too tight. 

He eschews the bag of frozen toes (though they _would_ cool the whiskey just as well and the alcohol content would take care of any bacteria, John would likely object) and to his surprise, discovers that there is indeed a full ice tray. He brings the whole thing over to the whiskey and is surprised by how difficult it seems to be to get the ice out. He manages it after a bit, fingers clumsily dropping in handfuls of cubes into the whiskey and onto the floor (the latter not planned, but nevertheless). “Whoops,” he says mildly, and holds the tray out to John. “Put it back by the toes.”

John takes it without arguing and looks at the ice on the floor. “You’re drunk,” he proclaims. 

Sherlock frowns. “Not really,” he says, but it’s not a very strong protest. John is probably right. “Not very,” he amends. 

John tosses the ice tray into the freezer without looking and comes back over. “Cheers,” he says, picking up his mug and banging it harder than necessary against Sherlock’s. 

“Cheers,” Sherlock echoes, and takes a long drink. The whiskey starts warm and ends cool as the ice takes immediate effect – interesting, he thinks. Maybe not that interesting. Never mind. 

John wanders over to his chair and sits down. “Fire?”

Sherlock goes to join him. “You can light one if you want.”

John thinks about it, then expels his breath through his lips, making a silly sound. “Too much work.”

“Agreed.” Sherlock gets himself into his chair, carefully trying not to spill his whiskey, though the mug is half-empty already. 

“Game?” John asks. 

“Have you become monosyllabic?” 

“What?” 

“That,” Sherlock says, gesturing vaguely with his mug. Some of the whiskey sloshes over and onto his hand, somehow. He drinks more of it to solve the problem. “You. You’ve gone mono- monospyllakic.” He tries again, concentrating. “Monosyllabic,” he pronounces carefully. 

“No,” John says, frowning at him. 

Sherlock starts to laugh, through his nose. “You did it again! ‘Fire. Game. What? No!’” He imitates, still laughing. 

“Shaddup,” John drawls. He’s half slid down in his chair and puts his feet on the edge of Sherlock’s, one on either side of his legs. 

Sherlock is slightly surprised to find that their chairs are close enough for John to do that. Did one of them move them closer? He can’t remember. “I’m surprised your legs can reach,” he comments lightly, but he can’t quite repress the grin that comes out with it. 

“Fuck you,” John says amiably. “Just because I haven’t got ten-mile-long stork legs doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with mine.”

“No, they serve you quite well,” Sherlock says seriously. “They reach the ground and convey you about on it, as I recall. And I don’t have stork legs. They’re just longer than yours.”

John lifts one of his legs to kick Sherlock in the knee with the underside of his heel. “Cock,” he says. 

“One syllable again,” Sherlock says. “You’re _good_ at this game! If only I had realised years ago that your secret brilliance lay in your ability to speak like a Neanderthal.”

“Oh, that’s it,” John says, and kicks him again. Sherlock retaliates by putting his legs in John’s lap and digging his toes into John’s stomach. John starts to laugh in his high-pitched giggle and grabs at his feet. “Don’t!”

“Another single syllable – you really – ”

“Don’t, I’m ticklish, you bastard!” John gripes, still gasping. He struggles to sit upward, then launches himself across the small space, hauling Sherlock out of his chair and onto the floor. 

Sherlock is glad he took off the jacket; as it is, the tightness of his shirt is hampering his movements somewhat. It comes untucked as they wrestle and that helps, but then John gets him on his back again, pinning him, tickling him and Sherlock is helpless with laughter. “Stop!” he begs, and John rolls off him, both of them panting with laughter as they lie on their backs, recovering. 

And then John reaches over and puts his hand directly on Sherlock’s crotch. Everything stops, the laughter evaporating into sudden silence. His crotch, Sherlock immediately realises in slight mortification, isn’t as soft as it should be. And is growing rapidly less so under John’s palm. He doesn’t know what to do, how to react. He freezes. For an agonisingly long moment, neither of them moves a muscle, John’s hand cupped obscenely around Sherlock’s genitals. And then it all happens at once – John moves faster than Sherlock would have thought him capable of in his current state, pinning him to the floor again, and suddenly they’re kissing. It’s not nice, harmless kissing, like the little things he exchanged with Janine, his lips pressed primly together – John is ravaging his mouth, his lips, teeth, and tongue all in play, and somehow Sherlock is responding exactly the same way. It’s rough and almost painful and _good_ , and getting increasingly better, in fact. His hands are yanking John’s t-shirt up, his fingers digging hard into his back and John’s are pulling his hair, pushing at his face. His body is quivering and they were already breathing hard from the struggle but now it’s completely different. He can feel John’s erection through his jeans and his own trousers and his own is at full hardness now, or close to it. He would say something, ask something, but his mouth is completely occupied at the moment and he doesn’t want to ask enough to stop kissing John like this. John is grinding down on him and all he knows is that it feels better than anything he’s ever known. Better than arguing Mycroft into a corner. Better than the victory after a case. Better than heroin, and easily more addictive. 

John is moaning, the sound curling around Sherlock’s spine like tendrils of desire. He doesn’t even move his mouth far enough to speak clearly as he says, “Take your clothes off,” his mouth mashed against Sherlock’s. 

He secretly rather likes it when John gets bossy like this and he must have nodded, because John is sitting up, straddling his thighs and pulling off his t-shirt before impatiently joining Sherlock’s whiskey-slow fingers in unbuttoning his shirt. He can’t help it; he is distracted by John’s bare torso. He’s certainly seen it before, but never like this, never when – whatever is about to happen is about to happen. He blinks a few times, his mouth opening, but he doesn’t know what to say. 

“Come on, get that off,” John insists, and Sherlock remembers what he was supposed to be doing and unbuttons his cuffs. “Trousers, too,” John adds. 

He rolls off Sherlock to shimmy out of his jeans, pulling off his socks and throwing them across the room. Sherlock follows suit, wondering momentarily what the question was that he was going to ask before. (Never mind, then.) He takes off his trousers and tosses them in the direction of one of the desk chairs. 

John climbs onto him again, still wearing his underwear, and traps him against the floor, his arms spread, John’s palms against his. “Where were we?” John asks, his voice lower and breathier than usual, and he leans forward to cover all of Sherlock’s body with his own. 

The intimacy is startling, the feel of John’s chest and abdomen directly against his own, and the even more prominent bulge of his erection rubbing against Sherlock’s own through their underwear is intensely distracting. And pleasurable. Their eyes lock, and despite the fog in his head, the look in John’s eyes is entirely readable. Moreover, Sherlock is quite sure that John’s communicated intent has been just as clearly and just as silently answered in his own eyes. This time, when John lowers his mouth to Sherlock’s, it isn’t a surprise. The kiss quickly turns rough again. John bites at his chin and throat and shoulders, all the while rotating his pelvis and thrusting his clothed penis against Sherlock’s. Sherlock can hear himself gasping, though the sound is distant and slightly removed, somehow. He struggles momentarily against John’s hands, then gets them free and they move of their own accord, drinking in the feel of John’s skin, his bare back, the hard muscle of his arms, the warmth of his arse. “Take these off,” he says, his voice all breath, meaning the underwear. 

John makes a sound of fervent assent. “You too,” he commands, and Sherlock hastens to comply. They separate briefly, each dealing with his own, then John turns to face him on his side, his hand reaching out for Sherlock’s erection. Sherlock tries to repress a shiver as John’s hand closes around him, but it shudders down his back regardless. Neither of them says anything. He reaches for John and touches him, their eyes locked together. It feels – vulnerable. Sensitive. _Good_. So good. This time it’s Sherlock who leans forward and finds John’s mouth with his own. Once again it’s as though a dam bursts, as though neither one of them is capable of stopping, that there is no time for patience. By the end of this one, Sherlock is half on top of John, rubbing himself against him and he has no idea what he’s doing, what to do, but the pleasure wants to be taken and his body moves clumsily toward it like a child reaching for sweets. He doesn’t know precisely what he wants or how he wants it, merely that he wants. And wants it badly. 

(He’s known this would happen one day. Should happen. Or that he desperately wanted it to, at least.) This small thought voices itself in his mind. 

John has a leg wrapped around his, his entire body concentrating on the one goal of rutting furiously against Sherlock’s. There’s a small bit of friction, though, but John addresses this before Sherlock can. “Tell me you have lube somewhere,” he says against Sherlock’s mouth. “Or lotion or something. Anything.”

“In the – bedroom,” Sherlock says, having to concentrate harder on forming the words coherently than he should have. 

John doesn’t respond, just gets to his feet and pulls Sherlock to his. They stumble over one another, kissing as they make their way down the short corridor, stopping as John stops and turns toward him in the doorway of the bedroom with a predatory light in his eyes, pinning Sherlock to it with his hips and kissing him so hard it feels angry. Sherlock throws himself into it, his nails raking down John’s back and over his arse, one knee lifting instinctively to wrap around John’s hip and arse as their bodies thrust together. John is panting into his mouth. “Lube,” he says again, urgently, and Sherlock resists the passing thought to mention that it’s a monosyllabic statement this time. 

“In the – in the drawer,” he says, failing to mention which drawer in his somewhat addled mental state. Easier not to verbalise. “I’ll get it.” He gets himself out from under John’s grasp and goes to the drawer, withdrawing the bottle. John follows him over and is right there behind him, his erection pressing up into the place where Sherlock’s cheeks meet. He shivers. 

John reaches around and takes the lubricant from him. “Bend over,” he says, his breath hot on Sherlock’s neck, his small, strong hands guiding Sherlock down (he doesn’t resist) onto his knees at the edge of the bed. He hears the sound of the bottle opening, of John rubbing it onto himself, and then his fingers are rubbing at Sherlock’s arse, slipping between, pressing at his entrance. 

“I’ve – never – ” Sherlock starts, his eyes closing instinctively. It feels good and he’s done this before, touched himself this way, but never with someone else, and never anything larger than his own fingers. He’s slightly nervous but knows that with his lowered inhibitions, he would never refuse this. Not after having desired it in secret for so long. 

“Relax,” John tells him, his fingers twisting inside Sherlock’s body. Sherlock’s breath draws in sharply as John expertly locates his prostate and presses into it, pleasure bursting brightly and thudding echoes throughout his nervous system. “I’m a professional, remember?” His voice is low and slightly rough and tremors are running up and down Sherlock’s spine. 

He’s on his hands and knees on the bed, John standing behind him, and despite the pleasure, it’s still a lot to take as John penetrates him. Drink and impatience have made this faster than he might have done if they were sober – but if they were sober, John never would have done this. (Enough of that.) Sherlock’s eyes are closed tightly, tears stinging behind the lids and slipping down his cheeks. He bends his elbows and lowers his face to his arms, and despite the pain, he is drooling on them. John gives him a moment, nothing more, once he’s fully seated. And then he begins to move. Pain/pleasure: the sensations war back and forth, but soon the dull ache fades – surprisingly quickly, in fact. It’s pleasure/pain now. The pain dissolves, turning into liquid gold within him. Pleasure. So much pleasure. It’s flooding his body and he can hear himself, the noises he’s making. John nudges him forward an inch or two, kneeling on the bed behind him now, his hands are running up and down Sherlock’s sides, but when Sherlock makes a particularly desperate sound, he reaches around to jerk at his leaking penis. Pleasure floods his nervous system and comes howling out his mouth as he comes suddenly, unexpectedly, his body spasming and twisting, oxygen cutting out as his breath suspends, John’s fist flying over his penis even as he ejaculates with force, his testicles imploding on themselves, his abdominal muscles clenching and clenching. He can feel his arse tightening compulsively around John’s penis, gripping it, needing its stimulation against his prostate, and John is gasping, his body slamming into Sherlock’s faster and faster until there’s a sharp cry and Sherlock’s mouth falls open in the incomparable experience of feeling John Watson have an orgasm within his body. He can feel the gush of wetness, the heat soaking into him, John’s heaving breaths rasping from his throat, still pushing himself into Sherlock, his penis spasming and jerking inside him. 

Sherlock is weak and trembling, and after a moment they both collapse face down, John on top of him, his penis still inside him. The strength of his orgasm has utterly drained him and Sherlock feels the effects of the alcohol wash dizzily back over him, now that he’s not preoccupied with something else. When he closes his eyes, the bedroom spins, but he’s so tired. 

After awhile, John shifts and pulls himself out, but he doesn’t move away all that much. He’s still half on top of Sherlock, his arm and one leg draped heavily over him, the sticky wetness of his softening genitals pressed into Sherlock’s hip. The room continues to spin, but Sherlock falls asleep anyway. 

*** 

He wakes in the middle of the night. How much later is unclear, but it’s still pitch-black outside. He is alone in bed and for a moment is disoriented. The light in the bathroom is on, and he remembers: John. _John_. His head is still full of too much whiskey and it’s not yet time to think about this clearly. He’s still drunk. The toilet flushes, the water in the sink runs briefly, and then the light switches off and John comes back. Without saying a word, he goes around to the far side and gets under the blankets, which they were sleeping on top of before. “Get under here,” he mumbles, his voice still thick with drink. 

Sherlock does as he’s told, wrestling with the blankets and sheet until he’s under rather than over them, and finds John in the middle of the bed. John’s hand immediately reaches for and finds his penis, and Sherlock is surprised to discover that he’s hard again. John must have noticed a moment ago. Neither of them says anything. He reaches for John, his erection knocking into his hand as he gropes for it unseeing. John doesn’t say anything now, either, but after a moment of staring at each other, rubbing each other, he disappears under the blankets, his hands pushing Sherlock into his back. His mouth descends onto Sherlock’s flesh and it’s hot and so wet and his penis must be crusted with dried semen but John doesn’t seem to be bothered in the slightest, sucking and sucking, his lips tight, his tongue massaging Sherlock’s penis so that he’s gasping like a fish out of water, his fists balled tightly into the sheets, hips straining up off the bed despite John holding him down. He can hear the sounds he’s making, removed again, as though it’s someone else making them, and he sounds completely desperate, whining, begging, albeit wordlessly, thrusting up as much as John will permit him to, almost sobbing when the orgasm comes again, his body turning itself inside out in liquid heat in John’s mouth, spending himself hard and it’s almost embarrassing, like he’s wet himself or something, but he can’t help coming so hard, nearly kneeing John in the head as his body spasms out of control. 

When it’s over, John crawls back up, his face sweaty from the enclosed heat under the blankets. He puts his mouth on Sherlock’s and passes back some of the semen still in his mouth and Sherlock swallows it himself. Ingesting his own DNA mingled with John’s: interesting. John is rubbing himself against Sherlock but it’s uncomfortable against his overly-sensitive penis now, so he reaches down instead. John understands and slips off him to the side and makes encouraging and then aroused sounds as Sherlock gives his first hand job. He rubs and strokes and pulls and twists and soon John is swearing and grabbing his wrist, thrusting into his palm with a few short, powerful motions and then he comes again, sounding immensely satisfied, which reassures Sherlock. He kisses John, wanting to get closer, gets on top of him, their legs and arms slotting together, and it feels even more intimate than it did before and Sherlock craves it more and more with every hazy minute that passes. 

They wake up again hours later, the first light of dawn just beginning to lighten the sky, their bodies already rutting frantically together before either of them wakes. Sherlock wakes with a gasp, John’s fingers digging into his arse as they thrust against each other like animals, no time for courtesies here, just raw, unvarnished _need_ , Sherlock’s hips pistoning as hard as he possibly can, his knees clamped around John’s thighs. This time it’s John who comes first, Sherlock following a moment later. There is come on his chest and stomach and pelvis and the bedroom is filled with the heavy scent of sex. This time neither of them speaks even once, falling immediately back into drunken sleep. 

*** 

“Sherlock.” 

“Mmmm.” Sherlock attempts to open his eyes but the light outside his lids is glaringly bright and he changes his mind and leaves them closed. His voice grates in his throat. 

“Sherlock.” It’s John. Slightly urgent. “Sherlock. Come on. You have to let me up.”

“Hmm?” Sherlock tries again, opening his eyes. Surprise sets in. He’s naked and spread over John like a heavy, boneless blanket. Pain hits the back of his skull. Then the memories flood in like the tide. _John._ Oh, God. Last night. He lifts his face, blinks several times, then understands what John has just said. He gets himself off with difficulty, wincing – their skin is glued together in several places and he is just remembering why and how. They had sex. And then kept having it, waking over and over again to start it again, to touch, to please, to aggressively give and take pleasure. He turns onto his back and John moves to the side of the bed and sits up, his shoulders hunched forward. Sherlock looks at him, his head feeling as though it weighs ten stone on the pillow. His stomach feels even worse. (Not good. This was not good.) He thinks of Mary, of the baby that’s due in three weeks. _Really_ not good. Extremely bad, in fact. Spectacularly, disastrously bad. The weight of what they have done is sinking in quickly, like red wine spilled on a white carpet, too late to prevent. 

John pinches the bridge of his nose with one hand. “Shit,” he says, and it’s precisely what Sherlock was thinking. “I can’t believe – we drank _way_ too much last night.”

“I’m – realising that, myself,” Sherlock says, feeling uncomfortable. Does John blame him for this? As he recalls, it was quite mutual. “I… ” He stops, realising he has no idea what to say. 

“It’s not your fault,” John says quietly. “If it’s anyone’s, it’s mine.” 

A silence falls as Sherlock searches for something with which to fill it. He can’t think clearly over the pounding in his skull, but something has to be said. “What do we do now?” he asks after a long while. 

John shakes his head. “I don’t know. Nothing. I guess.”

There’s a pause in which Sherlock wonders whether he is supposed to apologise. He does not want to apologise. But perhaps it would help. But John has already assumed the blame, hasn’t he? And despite his unwavering conviction regarding the situation, he cannot wish that it hadn’t happened. He liked it. He liked it tremendously. No, he cannot apologise for it, even if it had been his idea, his impetus, which it wasn’t. “I assume you’re not going to tell Mary…” He sounds uncertain and he is. Will John feel that full disclosure is his marital duty as to this particular indiscretion? 

There’s another long silence in which he can hear John thinking, slowly, painfully. “No,” he says finally, the word flat. “We only just got back together. She’s going to have the baby within the next three weeks or so. I – can’t. We’ll just have to pretend it never happened. I can’t believe it _did_ happen, that we did all that. Jesus.”

This doesn’t sit well, for whatever reason. Perhaps he’s merely feeling nauseated due to the hangover, but Sherlock still doesn’t like it. “John…” He wants John to look at him. It’s difficult to talk to John’s back about this. 

Perhaps John hears his unspoken thought. He turns and looks back at Sherlock for a long moment. What he sees on Sherlock’s face is unclear. After a long moment, he says, his voice a little gentler, “I know.”

Sherlock does not know what John knows, or thinks he knows. Somehow he cannot bring himself to ask. Clearly John considers last night a monumental error, and on balance it does seem that way: John is married. To Mary, not to him. His marriage is already quite precarious and to further destabilise it with an affair is simply not an option, no matter how much John’s behaviour last night might have indicated an ongoing desire for what did, in fact, happen. Repeatedly. Sherlock’s body is aching from it, and, despite the pain in his head, for it. He knows that he is not permitted to argue for himself in this. He feels simultaneously as though this is perfectly logical, yet resents it nonetheless. And wonders whether John will go on being his friend or not. “You should go home,” he says. 

John nods. He gets up, still completely nude, and walks out of the bedroom to find his clothes. Sherlock notes that John’s penis is not soft and his eyes follow John’s arse without shame as he leaves the room. (Should he stay in the bedroom and let John depart unimpeded? No, he decides.) He gets up and goes swiftly to pull on his old blue dressing gown, its silk whispering against his sticky, marked skin, and notes that he is still slightly unsteady on his feet, feeling his brain slosh from one side of his head to the other as he sways down the corridor. John is buttoning his jeans in the sitting room, still shirtless. 

“Are we still friends?” Sherlock asks abruptly. This is important. He needs to know. 

John avoids his eyes for a moment, tugging a sock onto his left foot. When he’s got the right one on, too, he straightens up. “Yes,” he says, looking directly at Sherlock. “Of course we are. You’re my best friend.”

Sherlock blinks. “You – we – had sex,” he says, resorting to the bare basics of wording. (It’s the most efficient way of putting it, and it has to be said out loud. Acknowledged directly.) “You wanted to.”

John swallows and goes to pick up his t-shirt. “Yeah,” he says shortly. “I know. I was there.”

“But – ” Sherlock stops, the objection hanging in the air. He wants to ask, _But if you wanted it that badly, why did you never say before? Why did it never happen before? Why didn’t you tell me? Why did you get married?_ Somehow he feels as though he is not permitted to ask these questions. 

John’s lips are pressed into a thin line as he pulls his jacket on. “I think it would be best if we just don’t talk about this,” he says, not meeting Sherlock’s eyes again. “It was a mistake.”

“An enthusiastically-made mistake, then,” Sherlock says, objecting. 

John’s cheeks redden despite the pallor of his hangover. “I know that,” he says tightly. “It doesn’t mean it wasn’t a bad decision. Several bad decisions,” he amends, before Sherlock can. He goes to the door and puts his shoes on, then stops, leaning against the doorframe, turned away from Sherlock. “Look,” he says, looking down. “I know I’m the one who screwed up. It’s my fault. I know that. I shouldn’t have done what I did, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry it happened.”

There’s a heartbeat of silence between them. Then Sherlock says, “Are you?” Another beat passes and he decides to just say it. “I’m not.” The blatant words hang in the air between them, impossible to take back or deny. (He does not want to deny them.)

He can hear John swallow from across the room. Then he turns the doorknob. “No,” he says. “Don’t. Don’t do that.” His footsteps hasten down the stairs and away, and Sherlock stands where he is and listens to him leave. 

He feels blank. He doesn’t know what he is supposed to be feeling about this, but whatever he does feel isn’t good. He knows that John cannot have an affair. It’s entirely against John Watson’s nature to engage in extramarital relationships. But – every thought in his head objects to this. _That_ was how it was always supposed to be between them, though it took Sherlock a long time to see it so clearly. He’s known for a long time now, at least since he came back. He’s known that it was more than being intrigued by John, by a late-blossoming first serious physical attraction. He knew when he nearly left for Serbia two weeks earlier that something within him was being torn to shreds at the thought of leaving John forever, leaving him behind, and with Mary. He knows very well that he loves him. 

He also knows that John is attracted to him. That he has been on some level since the very beginning. He’s seen it other times, though, stronger on some occasions than others. His stag night – for a moment, Sherlock had almost wondered if it was going to happen then. But it _wouldn’t_ have, because John Watson is a not a cheater. He has integrity. He is, despite his temper and his shortness and his irritability, an inherently good man. It’s one of the things Sherlock loves best about him. John cannot have an affair. 

(But John is mine, he thinks rebelliously. Should be mine. It isn’t fair.) 

Sherlock has no idea what to do with himself. Eventually he decides on a bath, washing away all evidence of John from his body as though clearing a crime scene. The external evidence is destroyed, but he can still feel the deep ache within him where John’s slightly-too-rough penetration has stretched his body in ways it has never experienced before. And there are the metaphysical markings, those left on his metaphorical heart, he thinks, feeling dismal. Those will never disappear. Unless he suffers amnesia for some reason, he will never forget any of the previous night. Of what it feels like to be intimate with John Watson. To make love? (Too sentimental, though it was, at least for him.) To have sex? (Too dry, failing entirely to grasp the significance of the event. Events.) To have felt John against himself, skin against skin, body against body, John’s hands and lips and tongue stroking over his body, John entering him, ejaculating into him. Sherlock thinks of neither of them having even thought of a condom. John had unprotected sex with him. (Why? He is a doctor; surely he knows the risks.) Unless he knew already that Sherlock had never been with anyone and calculated accordingly. (Slightly humiliating thought.) What about Mary, though? Suddenly Sherlock wonders if they’ve resumed their conjugal relations since Christmas. Perhaps not. If not, that could explain John’s choice. Unless he was truly inebriated enough to have forgotten to think of it, but that seems unlikely. The thought of John and Mary not having sex cheers him slightly, but only very. He will not get to keep John. There will be no repetitions of last night, save in his memory. 

And hopefully, at least from time to time, John’s. 

*** 

It’s five days before he sees John again, which feels like an eternity. Sherlock doesn’t know whether to be relieved to postpone the first, potentially awkward post-incident contact or merely disappointed not to have the chance to see John again sooner, confirm for himself that John meant what he said and that he still intends to continue their friendship. Whichever he is supposed to feel, it’s decidedly the latter that he does feel, ultimately. Lestrade puts an end to the prolonged silence between them by texting them both about a case. Sherlock responds to the group text first with a simple _On my way. SH_ and John texts a few minutes later at the half-hour (between appointments, then, Sherlock thinks) with a _Be there in twenty._

He arrives a few minutes after Sherlock (seven, but who’s counting?) and comes to stand near him but refrains from looking at him, his hands clasped behind his back, mouth pursed as though in intelligent thought. “What have we got here?” he asks, directing the question at Lestrade. 

Sherlock lets Lestrade answer it, since John has made his preference to hear it from Lestrade clear. 

“Stabbing,” Lestrade says. “Only look at this! You’ll love _this!_ ” He pulls the sheet back from the victim’s body, revealing the face and torso. 

“What the – ?” John begins, staring. 

Sherlock loses what little patience he had. “The victim appears to have been tattooed to death. I suspect a toxin in the ink. Searching for a signature, could take awhile, will start researching local tattoo artists for a match to style. Professional level, possible trace in the ink.” His mouth snaps shut after the hard final _k_ and he moves away from John, uncertain whether he wants more distance between them or less, but if John is being stiff and uncommunicative and doing his stupid nothing’s-going-on-here routine, then perhaps less would be better. (A pang of ridiculous yearning goes through him as though John’s very proximity has an effect on his nervous system itself.) 

“Toxin in the ink,” John repeats, not moving, eyes still on the victim. “Who was this?” he asks generally, looking at both of them, although his eyes merely wash over Sherlock without actually landing. 

“Name’s Joe Quentin,” Lestrade says. Sherlock ignores him and begins to search on his phone for local tattoo parlours. “Forty-seven, divorced, and that’s what we’ve got so far.”

“Can we get a sample of the ink right away?” John asks. “Would your medical examiner mind? The sooner we find the toxin, the sooner we can solve this.”

Lestrade waves at him. “Be my guest,” he says. “You’ve got your lab partner here, so why wait? Besides, the ME hasn’t even arrived yet.” The light joke about being lab partners falls flat. Worse still, Lestrade glances back and forth between them, then takes out his phone. “I’ll, er, maybe just go and check on that, as a matter of fact.” He leaves them alone with the body, though there are a couple of forensics people on the other side of the sitting room. 

John clears his throat and crouches down beside the body. “You’re sure he was tattooed to death? Couldn’t he have had some of these before?”

“Oh, certainly,” Sherlock agrees swiftly. “Some of the tattoos are obviously older than the others. And this would have taken far too much time to have done in one session. No, it’s the tattoos on the face and hands that I suspect were the latest. Same artist, though.”

“How do you know?” John is doing an admirable job of concentrating only on the case. 

“Coherence of style,” Sherlock says briefly. He looks at John over his phone now, but John is looking at the body. For a moment he just permits himself to look, his eyes practically aching at the sight of John. He wants to ask why, if they are still friends, he hasn’t heard from John since that night. “John…”

“Right, these tattoos are definitely the newest,” John says, speaking over him immediately. “The skin is still irritated and there are signs of recent bleeding, just minor, but it’s consistent with a hefty session of tattooing. Some skin is more sensitive than others.” 

Sherlock waits for him to finish talking, giving him a chance to say, _Oh sorry, were you going to say something just now?_ , but John doesn’t ask. Message received, then. Sherlock feels this keenly but swallows and does his best to keep it out of his voice and off his face. “All right,” he says, and it almost works. 

The day is nothing less than torture, Sherlock feels. The longer it spins out, the less he feels himself able to be in a room with John without snapping in some way, either in shouting something horrifyingly unacceptable at John, or giving in to the temptation to touch him – so strong that his fingertips are prickling with the need to make contact with John’s skin again, the warmth of his body – or else bite everyone’s heads off and storm off into the rain that’s been falling since morning. John is resolutely not making eye contact with him, yet speaking to him in unfailingly polite tones and Sherlock wants to scream. 

Lestrade notices. At one point, when the two of them are more or less alone in the kitchen of Joe Quentin’s house, he sidles over to Sherlock and mutters, “What’s going on with the two of you, then?” 

“Nothing!” Sherlock says sharply. He tries not to wince; that was far too fast. He holds up the vial of Quentin’s blood and caps it, glaring. 

“It’s just, you both seem a bit tense,” Lestrade offers as Sherlock scrawls the date and time on the side of the tube in permanent marker. 

He doesn’t answer for a long moment, then says tersely, “Nothing’s the matter. Everything is _fine_.”

He can feel Lestrade’s dubiousness. “Well, that was convincing,” he says dryly. “Right: I won’t pry, then. Listen – did you still want to take a look at Quentin’s bedroom? You can, only I’m going to take the forensics team over to the tattoo parlour you found to have a look now that the artist is out of the way. I’m a couple of people short, so we haven’t finished with the house just yet, but if you want to…”

“Yes.” Sherlock should refuse on principle, but he wants to see the bedroom, anyway. “I’ll have a look at the bedroom for you.”

“And – ” 

“And I’ll lock up when we leave.”

“Great,” Lestrade says with relief. “Thanks. Appreciate it. Let me know if you find anything.”

“Of course,” Sherlock says woodenly. “Here.” He thrusts the vial of blood at Lestrade. The city morgue will run its own toxicity tests on Quentin’s blood but he’d prefer Molly to do her own tests if he himself is otherwise occupied. “Get that to Bart’s.”

Lestrade takes it without arguing and strides off without any further pointless words. 

When they’re gone, Sherlock goes to the doorway of the kitchen. John is sitting on the sofa scribbling notes in his little notepad. The sound of his pencil scratching on the paper is the only sound in the house. Sherlock clears his throat. “Lestrade’s short on forensics,” he says, half wondering why he’s bothering to tell John, invite him into this when he could perfectly well inspect the bedroom himself. “He’s asked us to have a look at the bedroom; they didn’t get to it…” He fades away, feeling horridly uncertain. Will John think he is being propositioned or some such thing? 

John’s hand stills and he looks up. “Yes,” he says without any particular expression. “All right.” He gets up and follows as Sherlock leads the way upstairs to where the two bedrooms are. 

It’s not difficult to tell which is Quentin’s; the other option is full of storage boxes and assorted clobber, likely all rubbish. “This one,” Sherlock says, entering the correct bedroom, though it’s unnecessary to point this out. 

John looks around. “So this is what the bedroom of a man who has ‘bastard’ tattooed across his face in capital letters looks like.”

“Not by choice,” Sherlock reminds him. He goes over to inspect the pictures and books, while John bends down to have a look under the bed and between the mattresses. Silence falls between them again. It’s heavy and thick, the sort of silence that one could see after trailing a hand through it, Sherlock thinks. He can feel John tangibly, feel his presence in the room, can practically feel the beating of his heart, taste his skin. (It will never happen again, he reminds himself, closing his eyes and ordering himself to concentrate.) 

“Sherlock.” John’s tone has changed slightly. “I may have found something.” 

Sherlock turns from the bookcase. “What?” 

“Come here.”

Sherlock hesitates, then goes over. John is standing upright by the bed, his back mostly to Sherlock, holding something in his hands. Sherlock gets close enough to look over his shoulder. “What is it?” His voice comes out softer and lower than he’d intended. Cue John to run or at least say something sharp. 

He doesn’t. “This,” John says. It’s a photograph of a woman with short dark hair and a great number of facial piercings and visible tattoos on her arms and neck. She’s beautiful, in a way. “This looks like the tattoo shop you found,” John says. He turns the photo over. The name _Samara_ is written on the back in short, bold strokes. “Employee?” 

“Perhaps,” Sherlock says. He is hovering directly behind John’s shoulder now, close enough to actually feel the heat of his body. He closes his eyes and lets himself drown in it, if only for a moment. 

The only sounds in range are the very distance ones of traffic over on the main street. He is standing too close to John and cannot make himself move. “Lestrade noticed, didn’t he,” John says, his voice coming out a bit tight. 

“Yes.” Sherlock turns his face very slightly, inhaling John’s hair silently, imperceptibly. He could get drunk on this, he thinks. 

“You’ve been thinking about it all day. Haven’t you.” The strain in John’s voice is stronger. 

“Of course,” Sherlock says. It’s only just above a breath. “I’ve thought of little else.”

John pauses. Sherlock can actually feel him struggling internally. After a moment of silent battle, he says, “Have the others gone, then?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says, his nose nearly touching John’s ear, the attraction between them so powerfully strong that it’s more than magnetic. It’s dizzying, the pull drawing Sherlock into its vortex inescapably. 

“Thank God,” John says abruptly. He turns around lightning quick and his mouth attacks Sherlock’s almost before Sherlock knew it was going to happen. It’s fast and violent, like the first time – their hands clawing at each other, pulling and pushing at clothing. There’s no time for this and it’s not allowed in the first place – and nevertheless, Sherlock finds himself being pulled onto the bed, his trousers undone, John’s hands on his arse, and it’s good, it’s so good. They’re rubbing and rutting together, John’s fingers pulling him free of his underwear and he would prefer to be nude and feel all of John’s nude skin against his own, but this is a crime scene and there’s no time for this, not with a murderer to catch, and besides that he would never turn John down, not ever. He’s on top of him, his nails scraping against John’s soft lower belly as he fights to get John’s underwear out of the way. He succeeds and John pulls his mouth back down to claim it again. 

They kiss fiercely as their bodies move together, Sherlock’s hand wrapped around both their erections. And inebriated and dizzyingly exhilarated as he is about this, Sherlock has just enough external awareness to know that neither one of them is drunk this time; alcohol cannot be blamed as the excuse. He was wrong – John hasn’t spent the entire day avoiding him because he was angry or didn’t want to be there with him – it was because he wanted Sherlock as much as Sherlock wanted him and was trying to suppress it, ignore it, but it just isn’t possible to not want it now that they’ve had it once. Sherlock is half panting in sheer relief alone that he wasn’t the only one wanting it, suffering over it. He gasps into John’s neck. There are no words that need saying at the moment, not that he wants to speak. All either of them needs is this, the savage twist and thrust of their bodies, the friction of their erections trapped in Sherlock’s fist, the irresistible force of the pull between them. This is about trying to crawl forcefully inside one another’s skins as much as it’s about the pleasure gnawing through Sherlock’s belly, his pelvis bucking and shuddering with it. He comes first, his breath suspending into nothingness as it jolts through him and out of him and onto John’s skin. He keeps jerking his fist over both of them as his penis continues to sputter weakly, his limbs fighting against the urge to relax. But not until John gets there. John’s voice is ragged in his throat, his hips jerking upward, thrusting himself into Sherlock’s fist. Both his hands are on Sherlock’s arse, gripping and squeezing hard enough to bruise. There’s a particularly hard spasm and then John’s voice is all high-pitched breath, his face contorted as though in pain as he comes, his body stiffening and shaking through it. 

As the aftershocks fade, they stay where they are for a moment, both of them breathing hard, looking at each other. John moves his hands to Sherlock’s back and strokes over it, weak from the release. Sherlock lowers his face to kiss John, but John turns away, evading it. Stung, though not entirely surprised, Sherlock puts his mouth on John’s neck instead, kissing harder than necessary. John’s pulse is thudding against Sherlock’s lips at his throat and Sherlock touches his tongue to it, presses into it. 

“Don’t,” John says, still breathless, though his voice isn’t as forceful as it should be. “Sherlock. Stop.”

Sherlock closes his eyes and turns his head sideways, away from John, his cheekbone on John’s shoulder. The rejection hurts, even though he expected it. They are lying together in the bed of a dead man, not even undressed, their softening penises still nestled next to one another like burrowing animals, and John is rejecting him again, even with his arms still around him. He cannot think of anything he could possibly say to this. He imagines that he can hear his hurt soundlessly exclaiming in the silence cocooning itself around them. 

John’s hands move then, transferring to his arms. Gentle, but firm. “I can’t do this,” he says, his breath stirring Sherlock’s hair. 

“I know,” Sherlock says to his shoulder. He opens his eyes. His voice sounds wooden. Almost. 

“I knew that before, but – I couldn’t – ” John stops, sounding both defiant and angst-ridden, as though desperate for Sherlock to understand why he should be resisting him and why he couldn’t just now, any more than he could the first time. 

“I know,” Sherlock says again. He gets up in one swift motion then, tucking himself away as swiftly as possible. It’s messy and he dislikes the sensation, but not as much as he dislikes the sensation of feeling exposed in front of John just now. He turns away, re-buttoning his shirt and tucking it in. “Leave the photo on the kitchen table for Lestrade. There are evidence bags on the counter.”

He goes to the door, then stops in case John is going to respond. John is still struggling, nearly silently, and when Sherlock looks at him, he catches John blinking hard. He hasn’t moved, his penis soft and meek, lolling out of his open jeans like some sort of sad, neglected creature. His t-shirt is still bunched around his ribs where Sherlock yanked it up, come cooling stickily on his stomach. He looks a mess in more than one way, and Sherlock’s heart gives a painful pang of unfamiliar empathy. (But what right does John have to be looking so wretchedly miserable after he’s just turned Sherlock away again? None.) Still. “I’ll… put it away,” John says thickly, meaning the photograph. 

Sherlock hesitates. He should really just leave, but… he is reluctant to do so, and something also tells him that if he leaves John here like this in the state he’s in, their friendship _will_ be over, dubious as its salvation is now, anyway. “I’ll wait for you downstairs,” he says, debating whether it’s against or in favour of his better judgement. 

But John’s small nod is worth it. “Okay,” he says, his voice equally small. “I’ll be down in a minute.”

They’re silent in the cab. When it stops at Baker Street, Sherlock turns and looks at John. John turns his head and looks at him without moving, a muscle working in his jaw. Then, as though it’s entirely against his will, he suddenly leans over and kisses Sherlock for a long moment, his gloved hand on Sherlock’s jaw. They kiss again, then again, their tongues coming together, and it’s firm, gentler but no less passionate than any of the other times they’ve kissed so far. The cabbie clears his throat pointedly and Sherlock breaks away with reluctance, the magnetic pull to John still burning in his gut. (It’s not enough.) He wants to ask John to come inside, stay the night. He knows that John wouldn’t, no matter how he asked. He opens the door and gets out, neither one of them having said a word the entire time. 

*** 

The kisses in the taxi are what sustain him for the next few days. In the morning, John is as cool and polite as he was the previous day when they all meet up at the crime scene again. Lestrade fills them in on what he’s learned of the tattoo artist after the questioning the previous night, and they discuss the woman in the photograph, Samara. She is not listed on any of the parlour’s employee lists or tax records, yet she is standing behind the counter in the photograph. Lestrade says something about bringing her up the next time he questions the tattoo artist, one Billy Evans. 

Next they go to the lab to get the toxicity test results and Molly confirms the toxin. The city morgue mortician calls to confirm that the stab wound was made after death, as Sherlock suspected. It’s all so very obvious. 

“Obvious?” Lestrade says, when he mentions this aloud. “How, exactly?”

“Find Samara,” Sherlock says, heading for the door. “That’s your killer. Love affair gone wrong, it would seem.”

“But – ” John hurries after him, Lestrade on his heels. “Sherlock, the other tattoos – you said they were all made by the same person!”

“Yes. She either did all of his work – which would explain how a relationship could have formed between them – or else she is gifted at mimicking Evans’ style. Could be that he was the one who taught her, particularly if they were – a couple,” Sherlock says, the wording sounding ridiculous as he says it. “Or if it was merely that Evans wanted it to be that way and Samara didn’t, she did nothing wrong in pursuing things with Quentin. Either way, Samara is your killer.”

“Hang on, why can’t it be Evans?” Lestrade wants to know. 

Sherlock shrugs. “The artwork on the hands. And the choice of poetry. Feminine.”

“Now you’re stereotyping,” Lestrade warns, his chin tilting downward in warning. “And Quentin could have chosen the poetry himself.”

“I see what I see,” Sherlock says, not appreciating being questioned or doubted. “It’s feminine. Indubitably. Find Samara.”

“Where are _you_ going?” Lestrade asks, as Sherlock turns and continues walking. 

“Home,” Sherlock says, not breaking his stride. “This case was dull.”

John follows him in silence to the cab. “I, er, if we’re done, that is, I should – I should probably get to the clinic. I’m sorry. I thought this would go longer, but – with Mary on leave, they’re already short, and – ”

Sherlock waits for the litany of excuses to die on John’s lips. “Fine,” he says, not looking at him. A cab draws up and he gets in, sliding over. John is hesitating. Sherlock bends down and says, “Coming? Or were you planning to stay in Clapham all day?”

John sighs and gets in. 

Sherlock gives the driver directions to the clinic. John does not kiss him when they arrive, awkwardly getting out with only the shortest and lamest of goodbyes. Sherlock closes his eyes as the taxi pulls into traffic again. 

*** 

It’s been four days since then. He’s barely left the flat since Lestrade called to say that they can’t find Samara or even confirm her existence, that Billy Evans refuses to admit knowing her, and that they’ve taken him into custody. They’re wrong and Sherlock knows it and is sulking about it. That’s not the root of his discontent, however, which he knows full well. He picks up his phone and texts John on a whim. _Come over._

It’s quarter of eight. John will be at home, likely, doing something domestic with Mary, the very thought of which makes Sherlock’s gut clench with jealousy. He’s certain John will refuse to come. There’s no response. It’s as though he can feel John hedging from across the city, actively ignoring his text. He texts again. _We could watch a film. If you like._

John does respond this time. _Sorry. Busy._

Sherlock picks up his phone and calls him. 

“Hello?” John says guardedly after two rings. 

“What are you busy doing?” He knows he sounds tetchy. 

He can hear John turning his head, as though looking at Mary, checking. “I, er, I’m actually already watching one,” he says, his voice both apologetic and tight. 

“With Mary?” Sherlock cannot keep the words free of nuance; he sounds suspicious, resentful. (He is.) 

“With my wife, yes.” John says, an edge to his tone. “I can’t talk right now.” His voice is lower, as though he’s trying to hide the fact of the conversation from Mary, too. 

“It’s always _can’t_ with you,” Sherlock says. “You can’t do this. You can’t do that. What _can_ you do?” 

He can practically hear John gritting his teeth. “I can do _this_ ,” he says, his voice low and angry over the line. “What I’m supposed to be doing.”

Sherlock feels his own jaw tighten. “Good luck with that, then.” He hangs up, his finger jabbing viciously at the screen. He wants to scream and fling the phone across the room. He breathes deeply and tosses it onto the coffee table instead, then flops onto the sofa and hates everything with all of his being. Why couldn’t he have possibly discovered the level of John’s desire well before the wedding? Why didn’t he see it, work it out? If he had known – but what would he have done about it? Sherlock knows that he would have been just as clueless then, but at least he wouldn’t have had the moral factor of a wife to consider. He hears a faint echo of Moriarty’s voice in his head (“that _wife!_ ”) from the night Mary’s bullet nearly ended him and the resentment grows. 

He knows that John cannot do this. But John wants it. He patently, obviously wants it. But wanting something is not enough, John would tell him. He can hear John’s voice saying the words. (He hates this. Hates feeling so dependent, so vulnerable, with John knowing precisely how much he wants it, though he’s never said it in words – he doesn’t have to, he thinks. John knows, regardless.) The entire thing is painful and humiliating and he knows that he would do anything, cross any line, break any law to have John. If there was a way, he would do it, but one cannot force a thing like this. 

He loses himself in his thoughts, rebelliously breaking at least one of John’s rules and smoking through half a packet of cigarettes there on the sofa, inside the flat. He doesn’t know how much time has gone by when his phone chimes again with a text alert. It’s John, and it’s been nearly two hours since they spoke. He picks the phone up, his heart racing unpleasantly. 

_Do you still want me to come over?_

Sherlock contemplates this for a moment, then thinks of how John will only regret it and be guilt-stricken and miserable after. Besides, he isn’t finished sulking over John’s rejection over the phone – and he probably wouldn’t come, anyway. He’d get cold feet and back out, leaving Sherlock furious and disappointed. He texts back, his thumbs typing rapidly, nastily. _No. Stay at home with your wife._

There’s a moment, then John writes back. _Oh. Well I’m sorry I came over, then._

Sherlock’s heart leaps into his throat. He gets up, vaults over the coffee table, and rushes to the window. John is standing back from the door at the kerb so that Sherlock will see him, looking upward. Their eyes meet through the window. Sherlock turns and swiftly clatters down the stairs. When he slides the deadlock open, John is waiting directly on the other side. They look at each other for several long heartbeats, then Sherlock reaches for the front of his jacket and pulls him over the doorsill and into his arms. Their mouths find each other immediately, John’s arms tight around his back, the smell of winter and starlight in his hair and clinging to the material of his winter jacket, cold through the silk of Sherlock’s dressing gown. The kiss goes on for several minutes, and it feels as though John is as hungry for it as Sherlock was. Is. He does not confront John about having changed his mind. He will not say anything that could make him change his mind and leave again. But surely _something_ has to be said. They cannot just keep on doing this spontaneously and never acknowledging that it’s happening, can they? (Nevertheless, Sherlock cannot bring himself to do anything that could prevent this from happening.) Not with John in his arms, their tetchy texts and bitter words all a game that’s immediately put aside: this is the truth. 

John pushes the door closed with his foot. “Upstairs,” he says against Sherlock’s mouth, and Sherlock can only agree, nodding fervently. Sherlock turns and goes to the stairs. Partway up, he reaches back and John takes his hand and doesn’t let go. Inside the sitting room, he closes the door as Sherlock turns to face him again. John’s eyes are sober and wide open, absolutely serious. “I don’t want to talk,” he says, his voice low. “I just want this. Take me to bed. Please.”

Sherlock nods, his eyes searching John’s. There’s a quiet desperation behind them; he knows precisely how little he thinks of what he is doing, yet he is doing it regardless. Because he wants it and they both know it. “All right,” he says quietly. “Then come to bed.” He is still holding John’s hand but slips his fingers between John’s now as he leads him down the hallway to the bedroom. They undress each other, eyes never leaving one another, and it’s all there, unspoken: they really are doing this. Having an affair. Deliberately. Not calling it a one-time, drunken accident, a mistake repeated at the crime scene, kisses that no one intended to have happen in a taxi. This is stone-cold sober and unmistakably intentional: John is here, in his bedroom, wanting it every bit as much as Sherlock does, his clothes lying in a heap on the floor. There is no plausible deniability. This is real. 

Wordless, they reach for each other, hands touching, stroking, testing. Their lips and bodies meet and this time there’s a quiet acceptance to it. An allowance that this is happening and that neither of them are fighting it, that the permission to give and take is there between them, an overarching, unuttered _yes_ hovering above them. _Yes, touch me. Yes, like that. Yes. Yes. Yes._

They move to the bed, not separating themselves from one another and John gets him onto his back. He retrieves the lubricant, then spreads himself out over Sherlock, skin-to-skin, and Sherlock wants to absorb him completely. Their erections are touching, caught between their bodies, John’s testicles resting directly on his own, and Sherlock is drowning in the glorious intimacy of it. John shifts above him, reaching down to caress his penis, his hand conveying so much tenderness and desire at once that Sherlock can hardly breathe. A need to ask ten thousand questions suddenly arises. _What are we doing? In general, but also right now? Is it going to be the same way as before, that first time? Did you like that? Do you want that? What will happen after? Will you regret it again? Will you be angry? I don’t know how to touch you, don’t know what to do, will you show me…_ Sherlock buries his face in John’s neck as John’s mouth descends onto his throat, to suppress both the questions and the sudden spike of arousal inhaling sharply into his lungs, his penis pulsing in the grip of John’s fist. His heart is pounding furiously. He’s nervous, he knows, and cannot control it. Neither can he react any other way than in quivering, gasping need to John’s touch. He is laid bare and exposed and it must be written all over his face for John to see and examine at leisure. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands; all he knows is that they are drawn to John’s skin like magnets. He presses them into John’s back and arse and wishes he were inebriated and thereby less inhibited. 

John responds favourably, however, groaning and shifting against him. He uncurls his hand so that their erections are touching again. He braces his weight on Sherlock’s chest, uncapping the lube, their genitalia bumping together like heat-seeking animals, caught in an awkward embrace of their own. Sherlock isn’t sure what John sees on his face, but whatever it is prompts John to reassure him. “Just give me a moment,” he says, and his breathing is fast but there is nothing uncertain in his voice or movements.

He rubs lubricant between his fingers, confirming the answer to one of Sherlock’s questions: that he does indeed want to do what they did that first night. Perhaps he thinks that if Sherlock wants him to cheat on his marriage, then he’d best be prepared to pay for it in sexual submission. Sherlock doesn’t care. As long as John wants to be with him, anything will do. And while he was sore for a day or two the last time, he nonetheless liked it very much. John is gentler this time, his fingers massaging first, his lips parted, eyes on Sherlock’s face. Sherlock closes his eyes, needing to shield himself somehow. It’s too vulnerable, too exposed. He feels John’s finger ease into him, feels the fluttering of his sphincter trying to relax and allow it. 

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s brows are contracted slightly; John is pressing two fingers into him now. “Mmm?”

“Could you look at me?” John’s request is undemanding, gentle. 

Sherlock opens his eyes to find John’s on his, as he knew they would be. 

John doesn’t say anything, but then he smiles, just a little bit. His fingers are buried to the hand now, waiting for the contractions to stop. “I wasn’t very gentle the first time,” he says, a bit ruefully. 

“It was fine,” Sherlock says, dismissing this. John’s fingers are slipping in and out and it’s beginning to feel rather good. His erection hasn’t gone anywhere, oozing slightly onto his lower abdomen. 

“Did it hurt, after?” John’s face is wary, as though steeling himself to wince. 

“Only a little.” 

“Is – is this okay, then?” John asks, for the first time, but it’s a real question. His fingers stop moving. 

Sherlock would prefer not discussing this, somehow. “Yes,” he says briefly. “Don’t stop.”

John looks relieved and starts pushing his fingers into Sherlock again, thrusting them in. The pad of his middle finger presses forward and ignites something within him and Sherlock’s breath draws in suddenly, his thighs shaking and clamping around John’s sides. “Found it, then,” John says, sounding satisfied. He lowers his face back to Sherlock’s and kisses him, very slowly and it’s extremely sensual. Sherlock’s penis is fairly aching with need by the end of it and he almost doesn’t notice when the head of John’s nudges forward, nesting itself just there, and then John opens his eyes and lifts his mouth off Sherlock’s. “May I?” he asks, his voice more air than tone. 

He hates having to say it. “ _Yes_ ,” Sherlock gets out. (For God’s sake, just do it. Stop torturing me.) 

Perhaps John understands this, because he mercifully stops talking. His erection is hard and full and feels even larger than it did the first time when he thrusts it slowly but unrelentingly into Sherlock, not stopping until he’s all the way inside. Sherlock’s gaze is caught, like a deer in a hunter’s light, by John’s, unable to look away, and it feels as though John is seeing directly into his mind as he penetrates Sherlock in what feels tantamount to the breaching of the city walls. His defences are all down, lost to the enemy (but is John the enemy?). He is laid bare beneath John, his legs open and hooked over John’s back, and John is looking down at him, the thickness of his penis nearly splitting Sherlock open, and Sherlock cannot look away. The moment is exquisitely intense. John is breathing hard, and Sherlock realises a moment later that he is, too, and trembling besides. They are connected in the most intimate possible way, their lower bellies touching, and there is no way now that Sherlock could ever escape with his dignity intact now. Not when he’s lying here with John inside him, his own erection unyieldingly hard against his belly. John breathes his name, his voice shaking a bit, and Sherlock understands that this is painfully emotional for him, too. 

He starts moving, slowly, gently, sensually, and with his eyes still on Sherlock’s, the intensity grows still more. John isn’t just – Sherlock eschews the vulgar word, but needs must – fucking him, having sex with him; John is making this more, unbearably more. He hates the term _making love_ , too, but there is no other way to describe it. John moves deliberately, firmly within him, his strokes shifting and changing angles. Sherlock hisses before he can help himself at one point, his prostate sparking and catching fire again, or so it feels, and John makes another of those satisfied sounds and angles at it again. “John!” Sherlock blurts out, not having meant to, and he’s almost mortified – he hadn’t meant to say anything, but the sensation is overwhelmingly good and it nearly frightens him, somehow. He is going to fall to pieces in front of John. 

John doesn’t stop this time, his movements increasing in speed. “It’s all right,” he says, his voice rough with what might be emotion, and he understands. “I’ve got you.” He shifts his weight to his left arm and curls his hand around Sherlock’s aching penis, stroking it, his thumb rubbing over the slit and smearing the leaking fluid around. He keeps this up, his thrusts regularly hitting Sherlock’s prostate and he can hardly breathe. The orgasm will be upon him in seconds. He can hear the sounds he’s making, sounding high and desperate and he’s past the point of being able to form words. John’s erection feels even larger and harder within him than it did before, and his hips are snapping forward hard, their flesh slapping together. It’s not gentle any more and Sherlock doesn’t want it to be – his stomach clenches, his penis spasms in John’s hand, and then his testicles tighten and explode. The orgasm encircles his body and grips it hard and Sherlock hears himself cry out as he ejaculates, thrusting into John’s fist, spilling over it and onto his knuckles, onto his own skin, and then John is cursing and saying his name again until his hips go still, his penis buried in Sherlock’s body as he comes, his body going rigid. Sherlock can feel it, his penis swollen and spurting within him, and it’s better than anything he’s felt. 

John goes limp after a moment, collapsing on Sherlock, his breath hot on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock lets his legs down, curling the right one around John’s, his hands saying what he himself cannot as he caresses John’s heaving back, his mouth in John’s soft hair. He loves John. Loves him harder than he knew he could do. This, _this_ , is everything he has ever wanted. It’s not his to keep, not in reality, but in some reality, somewhere, John is his and no one else’s. The urge to let every ridiculously romantic thing ever uttered in human history rises, and he has the wit to not let them escape his lips. He cannot say them. It’s completely impossible. 

They lie together for a long few minutes, just recovering themselves and John does not object to the way Sherlock is touching him, silently loving him, his hands touching John’s back and arse, his lips mouthing kisses onto his head. After a bit, John shifts, pulling himself out of Sherlock, and his release comes with it. It’s not the most comfortable sensation, but Sherlock finds he could not possibly care less. John moves to the side a bit but leaves his legs tangled with Sherlock’s, his arm over Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock turns his head and puts a hand on the back of John’s neck and kisses him, and John does not resist this, either. As they kiss, Sherlock curls his arm around John’s back and pulls him even closer, feeling an intense need to bond himself to John, and John allows this, too, his arm tightening around Sherlock in response. Their legs are moving slowly, rubbing against one another’s, and if anything, Sherlock almost likes this even better. Despite the ten thousand questions and their likely-unhappy answers, some part of him is radiantly, shiningly happy, at least for this brief moment. He has John in his arms, as intimate as possible, kissing him as though the world could end tonight. 

The kiss finally ends, as it had to eventually do, and John puts his hand on Sherlock’s face, running his thumb over the sharpness of his cheekbone. 

The question rises and refuses to be held back or filtered. “What happens now?” Sherlock asks, his eyes searching John’s, already fearing the answer. 

John makes a motion that might be a shrug. “What else can I do?” he asks soberly, his voice soft, his face troubled. “I can’t not do this, evidently. Not when I know you want it, too. Christ, I wish I’d known before.”

“Would it have changed anything?” Sherlock knows the question is dangerous and probably unwise, but it asks itself before he can help it. 

John’s eyes are wide and dark and very sober. “I don’t know. Maybe.” 

“I want you,” Sherlock says. He cannot say the other thing, the realer thing. 

“I want you,” John counters. “Obviously. I want you far more than I should. And I can’t do this, and I also can’t refuse it. So what am I supposed to say?”

“So what is this, then?” He has to ask. “What happens now? Do we keep doing this?” 

“In other words, are we having an affair?” John rephrases, and sighs. “God. When one says it that way… I suppose we are, aren’t we.” He closes his eyes, his face contracting in pain. “I never wanted to be unfaithful. But with you, I – ”

Sherlock waits. “What?” he asks, when John doesn’t finish. 

John opens his eyes again. His lashes are fair and fan out around his deep blue eyes, softening them. “I can’t help myself,” he says unhappily. “I want it too much.”

Sherlock grows a touch impatient. “Meaning what, precisely?” 

“Meaning yes, I’m having an affair with you,” John tells him, the lines around his mouth deepening. “Apparently.”

“John – ” He can hear the emotion in his voice, far too much of it. He reaches for John again and John permits it. More than permits it – he kisses back just as deeply. Sherlock rolls John onto his back, his arms trapped against the mattress. John’s legs are wrapped around his and Sherlock feels he could die of unmitigated joy. He’s said it, agreed to it, and it’s not the same as John leaving Mary and coming back here for good, but it’s something, and it means that John wants it nearly as much as he does, that he would take the risk of deliberately starting an affair, and with Mary’s labour just on the horizon, too. But now there’s an agreement. None of the specifics have been established; this says nothing about how John is going to divide his time, keep the secret, how often Sherlock will be allowed to see him, how often this can happen, none of that. But he has agreed to continue it. 

It’s not much later when John says with reluctance that he should go home. “I wish I could stay longer,” he says wistfully, pulling his jeans back on. 

Sherlock doesn’t tell him to, doesn’t ask. John has already been away suspiciously long for the drink he was supposedly having with Bill Murray. He watches John dress, then says, “I’ll come to the door with you.”

John’s lips quirk into a smile. “Like that?” he asks, nodding at Sherlock’s nude frame. 

Sherlock glances down at himself. “If you like.”

Something gleams in John’s eye. “Yeah,” he says. “Don’t put a dressing gown on. Just come to the door like that.”

It feels silly, but Sherlock would do just about anything to humour John, he thinks, letting John pull him off the bed by the hand, being led out into the flat without a stitch of clothing on, not even a sheet. The disparity between their states of dress grows when John puts his coat and shoes on, then turns around to say goodbye. His eyes swarm over Sherlock’s form, still hungry. “God,” he says. “You’re – bloody gorgeous, you know that?” 

Sherlock smiles. “You’ll be in touch?” he says, knowing that he shouldn’t provoke John. He can see the desire darkening John’s eyes already, looking at him this way. 

John swallows and pulls his eyes back up to Sherlock’s face. “Yeah,” he says. “Of course. And – sorry, about earlier. I just – it’s hard. Trying to do both, and knowing that I shouldn’t – but I couldn’t – ”

“I know,” Sherlock says, trying to stop the self-recriminating words. “It’s all right. You came.”

John shakes his head. “And I don’t know whether that’s the right or wrong thing to have done, or if there _is_ a right and a wrong. I know this is probably wrong. But I had to. You know I did.”

Sherlock isn’t sure what he is supposed to say to this, if choosing him was the wrong decision. “I’m glad you did,” he says, and it seems that this was the right thing to say, at least. John steps forward, puts his hands on Sherlock’s face and kisses him deeply, passionately enough to make Sherlock feel weak in the knees and twice as naked as he did before. As they kiss, John moves his hands to Sherlock’s back and then his arse, pulling him up against his jeans and jacket and Sherlock can feel him hardening already. John is so responsive to him physically – it astounds him. And his mouth is strong on Sherlock’s, the kiss dizzyingly powerful.

Eventually he releases Sherlock. “I’ll text you,” he says. “Or let me know if there’s a case.”

“Of course,” Sherlock says. John moves away, opening the door. He wants so badly to say something else, but he can’t say it. It would be too much and it would only serve to make John feel guilty for not being able to say it back. Instead, he echoes John’s goodnight and listens to his footsteps descending, the door opening and closing. A gust of January air comes up the stairs a few moments later, causing him to shiver. 

*** 

The next few days are difficult. He doesn’t see John at all, nor barely hear from him. Their few text exchanges have been brief and heavily one-sided. In the old days it would have been John waiting on his replies; now Sherlock is tasting this likely-unintentional revenge acridly. 

The day after their tryst, he writes _What are you doing later?_

John waits nearly two hours before writing back. _Drinks with some of Mary’s friends._

 _Until when?_ Sherlock writes back, and he doesn’t receive a response. The next day he tries again. _How is work?_

 _Busy_ , John writes back. _Everyone has the flu._

 _I assume you’re busy later, too_ , Sherlock writes. 

_Yes. Sorry._

He hates when John doesn’t specify what he’s busy with, when he gets vague about the details. Hates not knowing whether the reason for John’s disappointingly slow responses or lack of detail is actual lack of availability or knowledge, or reluctance or second-guessing. It feels like the second, but he doesn’t know and doesn’t want to come across as paranoid. Is he actually with Mary all of the time that he isn’t at work, then, or what is it? He wishes he understood.

The fourth day, Lestrade texts them both to say that they’ve got a lead on Samara’s possible identity and wants to know if they’d be up for staking out one of the possible locations they’ve established, if this woman is indeed their mystery woman. John texts back first, saying that he’ll be there, then sends a second, private message to Sherlock. _Want to go together? If you swing by the clinic, it’s on your way?_

Sherlock’s heart skips a beat, and he texts back immediately. _On my way now._ He drops the phone into his coat pocket and races down the stairs to get a taxi, adrenaline spiking at the movement in the case but particularly the prospect of seeing John again. Four days feels like an eternity. It feels like long enough for him to have certainly changed his mind. The taxi stops outside John’s clinic and John hurries out and gets into the taxi. Sherlock tells the driver the new address, then turns to John. “Hello,” he says, trying his best to sound normal, whatever that’s meant to sound like. 

John smiles at him, a real smile. “Hi,” he says. 

Sherlock can’t take his eyes off him and gets stuck just smiling like a witless moron. There are ten thousand things he wants to say, ask, confirm, but it doesn’t seem like the right moment, and he doesn’t want to sound accusatory, either. Finally he drops his gaze to the region of John’s knee and clears his throat. “I’m – glad you came,” he says, and it comes out sounding both stiff and a bit sad, as though he’d thought John wouldn’t come. He grimaces internally; this is precisely what he had not meant to do, make John feel guilty. 

John clears his own throat. “Er, yeah,” he says. “After all the flu cases, I was jumping at the chance to get out of there for a bit.”

Sherlock feels his lips tighten a bit. So that was the only reason John came. He hears himself make a neutral sound and turns his face slightly toward the window. It’s unexpected, therefore, when John takes his hand. He looks down at their hands in surprise. 

“Hey,” he says, a bit softer. “I’m also glad to see you.”

Relief bursts like a water balloon in Sherlock’s chest, making him feel somehow soggy and idiotically emotional. He clears his throat again in lieu of a proper response and tightens his fingers in John’s. “You’ve been busy,” he says, then weighs whether it sounds more as though he’s forming an accusation against or an excuse for John. 

John nods, looking down. “I have, yeah. Sorry.”

“It’s all right.” It isn’t, it really isn’t, but he has to say it. The taxi pulls up at the specified corner and Sherlock reaches forward to pay him, reluctantly detaching his hand from John’s. “Come on,” he says. 

Outside, he shows John the doorway they’re supposed to be watching from, then looks around to find a suitable place to put themselves. There’s a small side alley, not a through way and therefore light in traffic. They can see the door from there and it’s relatively sheltered from the January wind. It’s narrow, though, not wide enough for them to stand side by side. John finds a solution, though. “Here,” he says, pushing Sherlock’s back against one wall, then turns around to lean back against him. “How’s this?” he asks, tipping his head back and up for Sherlock’s approval. “Can you see over me?”

“Oh, as if that’s such a challenge,” Sherlock scoffs, but he’s secretly pleased with John’s arrangement. He puts his arms around John’s middle, under his arms, and leans his face into his hair, inhaling it. 

“Shut up,” John says amiably. “You love this.”

(He cannot possibly argue this. Would it be better if he made it less clearly how much he wants this, or would John lose heart and change his mind if he did? He wishes he knew.) “Mm,” Sherlock says vaguely, and John’s gloved hands settle over his own, his weight relaxing against Sherlock’s torso comfortably. “I suppose I do.”

They watch for twenty minutes or so, not talking, and Sherlock has to remind himself to actually care whether or not Samara appears, bathing rather in John’s warmth, his proximity, occasionally tightening his arms. 

“I’m getting cold,” John says after awhile. 

Sherlock responds by putting one arm over John’s shoulders instead and pressing his face into John’s cheek. “Better?”

“Sherlock…” John is responding, despite what sounds like the beginning of a protest, fingers gripping his arms. “I thought we were supposed to be watching for Samara.”

“We are.” Sherlock says the words into John’s hair. “My eyes are on the door.”

“You’re not exactly paying attention,” John murmurs, but it’s a very weak protest. 

“Is that what you _want_ me to pay attention to?” Hanging preposition, dreadful, but he doesn’t particularly care at the moment. 

There’s a pause. “Not really,” John admits, and turns himself in Sherlock’s arms to kiss him, his body pressing Sherlock’s into the cold stone wall behind him. Sherlock kisses back hungrily, some internal desert within him drenched in sheer relief as the kiss washes over it like the tide, quenching the draught. He couldn’t care less about the stake-out, he can admit privately. This is really all he cares about at the moment. “I’m sorry,” John says, breathing hard against his mouth a few minutes later, his heart thudding through his jacket and Sherlock’s coat and into his chest. “I just – I’ve barely got to see you lately, and – ”

“John,” Sherlock interrupts, semi-desperately, “shut up.” 

“Okay – ” John is forcibly shut up as Sherlock initiates the next kiss, something he doesn’t usually do, but John is here and in his arms and all he can think about is how much he wants him. After awhile, they pull themselves together and resume watching, John standing directly inside Sherlock’s coat for warmth, his back spreading warmth down Sherlock’s front. “You’re not concerned that people will see us here, like this?” he asks at one point. 

Sherlock presses his cheekbone into John’s hair. “Let them look,” he says recklessly. “Let them photograph us for all I care. Paint us. I don’t care.”

John is still for a long moment, then says quietly, “And I suppose we’d just have to hope the finished product was never displayed anywhere that my wife would see it.”

Sherlock cannot think of anything to say to this, but his exhalation is heavy. John links his fingers into Sherlock’s as though in apology and they pass the rest of the stake-out in silence. 

At the end of two hours, Sherlock calls Lestrade and says that they’re cold and giving up the stake-out for the time being. Lestrade agrees and half-heartedly offers them a cruiser to watch from next time, and Sherlock says he’ll think about it. He hails a taxi and delivers John back to the clinic, kissing him for several long, glorious moments before he gets out, not caring a fig for the taxi driver. 

Everything seems grey and dull once John is gone again. 

*** 

Two days later there’s a sighting and then a capture. Lestrade calls them in that afternoon so that Sherlock can question the woman, whose name really is Samara. There is no legal record of her existence, though, fact which makes sense once they learn of her illegal immigrant status. The three of them sit across the table from Samara in the interrogation chamber. Lestrade knows better than to have suggested that he only needed Sherlock, and besides, John has a record for asking astonishingly insightful questions that the two of them occasionally overlook. 

“Full name,” Lestrade says, pen poised. 

The woman is young, under thirty-five, with short dark hair that’s beginning to curl around her face, which is long and elegant, her skin pale but slightly olive-hued. Dark eyes glance up at the three of them from time to time, thickly lashed and full of misery. “Samara Ilkim-Sadik.”

Lestrade scratches it down. “Place of birth?” 

“Istanbul.”

“Illegal immigrant, I take it.”

She looks up at him, the glance fleetingly defiant, then looks away in defeat. “Yes.”

Lestrade makes a thoughtful sound. “In that case,” he says, “Turkey will likely extradite you to be tried back there. Let me just ask, though: did you kill Joe Quentin? Were they your tattoos?”

Sherlock catches the flinch before it’s hidden. “No,” she says, but her shoulders go rigid. 

Sherlock leans forward. “The ink was poisoned,” he states. “We already know that. We know which poison. The only question is whether it was you or Billy.”

That gets another, less-fleeting flash of anger, plainly visible. “So you _do_ know him,” Lestrade says, pouncing on this. 

She glares. “Of course I know him. He is – was – my boss.”

“And boyfriend?” John puts in, questioning. 

She looks at his hands and her eyes stay there as she continues. “Yes.” It’s defiant again. Now her eyes shift to Sherlock. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

He lifts his brows coolly. “You did kill a man.”

“He _made_ me!” It’s vicious, not bothering with a denial this time. “I had to – he has a gun, he – ” She stops. “Is he here?” she demands of Lestrade. 

He shakes his head. “Not in this building. A holding cell. And he denies ever having seen you.” He holds up the photo that John found in Quentin’s bedroom. “So if he was your boyfriend, why did Joe Quentin have this photo of you?” 

Her face takes on a pained look and she takes the photo from Lestrade and looks at it for a long time without speaking. “He took this,” she says after awhile, and her face fills with emotion, large eyes welling. 

“You were lovers,” Sherlock says. It’s not a question. He can feel John’s look. “Billy found out and made you kill him. He had done the earlier work, but you took over at some point, apprenticed to Billy’s style. He made you tattoo his hands and face with his own accusations. At gunpoint, I assume.”

Samara begins to weep, her face in her hands. “Is my fault,” she says, her accent stronger, voice muffled through her palms. “I should not have cheated – but Billy – he pay for everything, and – ” She is crying almost too hard to speak. “But Joe, I – _love_ – and he – ”

She continues to sob and Lestrade glances at Sherlock. “Good thing we didn’t let Billy go, then,” he says tightly. 

“He _made_ me!” Samara cries. “I would never – but this is my fault, I should not have cheated, but Joe – I – ”

“I understand,” Lestrade says, opting for tact. “If he forced you at gunpoint, then it isn’t your fault. We’ll get you a lawyer and see what we can work out.”

Samara regains control of herself. Her eyes go to John again. “Don’t cheat,” she says fiercely. “You have to make a clean break. Cheating hurts everyone.” Her fingers splay over the photograph of herself again. “I will never forgive myself.” Her voice is ragged, her face a mess of tears. 

John looks startled. “Why me?” he asks her sharply. “Why did you say that to me, particularly?” 

She gives him a look as though he’s completely stupid. “You are the only one with a ring.”

Sherlock can feel Lestrade glance at him again and suddenly wonders if he knows. He suddenly hates Samara and wishes she would keep her unnecessary ‘advice’ to herself. (Will John be bothered by this? He has enough trouble with his conscience as it is.) He can also feel John carefully not looking at him. 

“Well, I think we’ve heard enough,” Lestrade says briskly. “We’ll have to get in touch with the Turkish embassy and figure out what happens from here on in. Stay here, someone will come for you in a few minutes.” He gets up and leads the way from the room. Sherlock stops to see John look back at her for a long moment before turning and following the two of them out of the interrogation chamber. 

Out in the corridor, John nods toward the gents’ at the far end. “I’ll er, just – ” he says, sounding constrained, and leaves them without another word.

Sherlock watches him go, feeling a tightness in his chest. When the door closes behind him, Lestrade clears his throat. “So,” he says, eyes squinting at Sherlock. “Are, uh, you two…?”

Sherlock feels his lips purse slightly. “I wondered if you had guessed,” he says, still looking at the closed door. 

“Yeah, well, less of a guess and more forensics,” Lestrade tells him dryly. When Sherlock registers the words and looks at him, Lestrade elaborates. “I sent my forensics team back into Quentin’s house to finish up the next day,” he says. “I wasn’t going to mention it, but they, er, found your DNA in his bedroom. Yours and John’s both.”

Self-recrimination heats his face. Rather careless, that. He is not easily embarrassed, but this is slightly embarrassing. “Ah,” he says, avoiding eye contact. 

Lestrade shrugs. “Besides, you two are so careful around each other now, at least in front of me. It’s none of my business, of course, but I always wondered… I mean, I was surprised he got married in the first place, once you were back and all. When did it start, then?”

Sherlock clears his throat and looks away. “The night we were all so drunk. Just over two weeks. Sixteen days.”

Lestrade makes a sympathetic sound. “And Mary’s due any day now. That’s rough. But he’s still… ?”

Sherlock nods, still watching the door. “Not often. But yes.”

Lestrade claps him on the shoulder. “Well, go after him, then,” he says gruffly. “And good luck. Thanks for coming by, even if it turned out to be such an easy confession.”

Sherlock hears himself say something automatic in response and Lestrade leaves, pushing through a side door and jogging up the stairs. He puts his hands in his pockets and waits. 

He hears the sound of the hand dryer running, then the door opens. John’s step doesn’t falter when he sees Sherlock waiting. Instead, he walks slowly, steadily over to him, not stopping until he’s right in front of him. “Worried?” He gives a twisted smile that comes off looking rather sad. 

Sherlock tries not to bite his lip, his shoulders stiffening. “Should I be?” It sounds defensive. (It can’t be helped.)

The look on John’s face is wry. “I think I would have been, after that.” 

He swallows. “Are you going to take her advice?”

John shakes his head. “I should,” he says, his voice tight. He moves even closer and puts his arms around Sherlock’s waist and turns his face to lean against Sherlock’s shoulder. “I know I should. But I’m not going to.”

Sherlock’s arms go around John without his conscious volition and his throat tightens. “Good.”

“Lestrade knows, doesn’t he.”

“Yes,” Sherlock says briefly. “He asked. I confirmed. Is that… all right?”

“I wouldn’t have expected you to lie about it,” John says, then falls into silence. They stand there that way for several long minutes, not speaking, just holding one another. Then John says, at last, “Let’s go out for dinner, and then let’s go back to Baker Street.”

“Are you sure?”

“It’s been six days, damn it.”

“I know. I’ve counted every second,” Sherlock says, and he sounds lost and forlorn and completely exposed. 

John’s arms tighten. “I’m sorry,” he says. “Let me make it up to you?” 

Sherlock nods, a weight lifting from his chest. “How are you going to do that?”

John turns his face into Sherlock’s neck and Sherlock thinks he’s going to kiss him there, but he doesn’t, though his lips brush Sherlock’s skin as he speaks, words and lips both causing him to shiver. “Let me show you.”

Sherlock hesitates. “Would you stay all night this time?”

John’s hesitation is even longer. “Sherlock…”

“Please.”

“You know I can’t.”

“Say it’s for the case.” Sherlock ducks his head to close his lips over John’s throat, massaging it with his tongue. He can actively feel John wavering, weakening, as he kisses his way up to his mouth. He makes a questioning sound, his lips hovering over John’s. 

John caves. “Damn you,” he mutters, but it’s at least half fond. “Yes. All right. Yes.”

Sherlock kisses him in triumph, arms coming around him and pulling him close, and John does not resist him. 

*** 

He comes so hard he nearly loses consciousness. John follows a moment later, shouting out as his body slams into Sherlock’s from behind and stills, the warm rush flooding him from within. Sherlock lets his trembling arms give away at last and collapses, panting, face first into the sheets, bringing John with him. They’re both panting and sweaty and it’s the singular best thing Sherlock could imagine.

In the end, they opted for takeaway which they’d eaten on the sofa, legs and arms touching, and the instant John had finished, Sherlock had turned to him. John had protested lightly, saying something about needing time to digest, but he’d let Sherlock kiss him, kissing back with abandon. “Can I at least brush my teeth before we – ?” he asked, and Sherlock had grudgingly agreed, brushing his own at twice the speed before going into the bedroom to remove his clothing. John had stopped in the doorway, his mouth actually falling open for a second, seeing him lying in the centre of the bed, then he’d wasted no time in shedding his own clothes and attacking Sherlock. 

John’s phone rings again; Sherlock has a vague idea that it rang once before, while they were both far too preoccupied to even notice it. “For God’s sake,” John pants into Sherlock’s back. “I told Mary that we’re on a stake-out tonight and not to call!”

“It could be someone else,” Sherlock says, his breath hot on his arm. 

“No one else ever calls me,” John says flatly. “She’s checking up on me.”

“Don’t answer it.” 

John kisses the nape of his neck. “I’m not going to. I promised you the night, didn’t I? Just this once.”

Sherlock lets a handful of seconds go by. “Just this once?” he repeats, holding his breath. He probably shouldn’t have said it, but… 

John lets his breath out in a noisy sigh and pulls out of him. Sherlock twists himself onto his back, feeling John’s release sliding messily out of him. It’s slightly unpleasant, but the knowledge that it was John who put it there is simultaneously pleasing. John settles back onto him, his fingers pushing into Sherlock’s damp hair. “I’m married,” he says, his voice a bit gruff. “I do live there.”

“But this won’t be the only time, will it?” Sherlock can hear how wistful it sounds but he can’t help it. Not now, not here, with John’s DNA slipping out of him and John’s skin and sweat and limbs all around and over him. “John…” He knows he should protest, but it’s impossible not to want more. (He feels the urge to say what he should never say again, more strongly than ever. It would be useless as an argument or persuasion in any case. No.) 

John sighs again and kisses his chin. “No promises,” he says. “We’ll see.”

He wants to ask how long this will last, if John would ever consider leaving Mary for him, if he will always have to play second fiddle. There’s the baby, he knows. He cannot compete with a baby. He cannot possibly ask these questions, not without risking John’s exasperation at having so much demanded of him that he cannot give or is not willing to give. Sherlock knows full well that whatever affection and attraction John feels for him is not enough to weigh against the notion of actually leaving his wife and child for him. It hurts but he has known this since the moment he met Mary Morstan and knew that one of her fingers would soon bear the permanent mark of John’s ring. He knew he’d lost John then, irreparably, though there had been some hope during the summer and autumn when John had come home again. The baby was why John went back; he knows this. And as John has continued to not use condoms with him, Sherlock assumes that he and Mary have not yet resumed sexual relations. Meaning what, then? Would Sherlock win out against Mary if it were only Mary in the balance? Even this, he does not know and is starkly afraid to ask. And the last thing he wants to do is to demand too much from John, but it’s so difficult. The more John touches him, the more addicted he feels. He _knows_ what a moral conundrum it must be for John Watson, of all people, to be deliberately carrying out an extramarital affair. Any further external pressure could be enough to make him change his mind. 

John’s head is on Sherlock’s shoulder. “What are you thinking about?” he asks quietly, his tone suggesting he knows the answer already. 

Sherlock realises that a small silence has gone by. “You and I,” he says, just as quietly. “I’m thinking about how long it will be until the next time. I always want more. I’m sorry.”

John lifts his head and looks down at him. “You’re not the only one, you know,” he says softly. “I think about you all the time, even when I’m not with you.”

The impossible words come to Sherlock’s mouth again and he filters them, refusing them. _No. I cannot say that._ He swallows, struggling against the urge. It’s difficult; he feels so strongly connected to John that he’s half afraid John could read his thoughts if he tried hard enough. “All the time?” he repeats. 

That gets a smile. “Yeah,” John says, and kisses him. “All the time.” Another kiss, then another and another and Sherlock rolls them over so that he is above John and John is snickering and still kissing him breathlessly. His phone rings again. They’re close to the edge of the bed. Sherlock reaches for it on the night table and switches off the volume, then tosses it across the room. John protests but doesn’t go after it, attacking Sherlock with his mouth again and wrestling him onto his back.

It’s not much longer before Sherlock feels John getting hard again and subtly checks the time: yes, forty-five minutes since his last orgasm. John is doing extraordinarily well in terms of refractory time for a man his age. As far as he himself is concerned, he’s not at all surprised that this first sexual period of his life should find his body responding almost at the rate of an adolescent; the moment he suspects John is becoming aroused is enough to provoke an answering reaction in his own body. He can hear himself, the small noises he is making as the wrestling turns easily into John thrusting against him. And this could be enough, but he wants to try something new while John is actually here. It takes considerable effort to get John off him and beneath him again, the struggle making him harder than ever, but he eventually succeeds in rolling John onto his front. 

John is still wriggling, lifting his hips to free his erection. “Oi,” he says, protesting through his laughter. “What’s going on? What are you – ” His words cut off abruptly as Sherlock gets his knees between John’s, forcing them apart, then swiftly massaging John’s arse cheeks with both hands and lowering his face to lick, his tongue twisting and pushing into John. John just manages to draw enough breath to yelp with surprise, followed immediately by a moan of pleasure as Sherlock’s oral assault continues. “Oh, _God_ ,” he says, and it’s heartfelt. “Jesus, fuck – where the hell did you learn to do _that?_ Oh my _God_ – ”

Sherlock stops just long enough to say, with no small measure of satisfaction at John’s response, “Research.” Mary would never do _this_ , would she? He continues what he’s doing, licking and penetrating John with his tongue, no holds barred, listening intently to John’s every tiny reaction. When his voice starts getting higher and more desperate sounding, Sherlock stops again. “Too much?”

“N-no,” John pants into the sheets. “But I want to see you when I come. Let me up?” 

It’s a request and Sherlock grants it, sitting up on his knees. John turns onto his back, his penis flushed dark, swollen and leaking. Sherlock’s mouth waters at the sight of it, unable to take his eyes from it. “What do you want me to do?” he asks, staring at it. 

John’s smile has both slightly predatory and slightly apologetic lights to it. “What I really want,” he confesses, “is to see you touch yourself. I’m sorry, I – you have no idea how much I’ve thought about that, tried to imagine you doing it. You _do_ do that, don’t you?”

“Of course,” Sherlock says slowly, feeling vaguely embarrassed about admitting it. “You really want to see that?” 

John nods, biting his lip, desire spreading in a flush over his face. His penis gives a visible twitch, too. “More than I can tell you.”

“Okay,” Sherlock says, still feeling awkward about it. “What – how do you want me to – ?” 

“Get on top of me – straddle me,” John says. Sherlock clambers onto him, legs astride John’s lower abdomen. “Shift back a bit so that I can feel you – yeah, like that,” he says as Sherlock arranges himself so that John’s erection is pressing into the cleft of his arse. “Touch yourself,” he requests. “Make yourself come.”

“Really?” Sherlock repeats, feeling dubious. “You want that?” 

John nods again, the colour in his face seeping down his neck and into his chest now, embarrassed about the request, but not too much to be asking for it. His embarrassment makes Sherlock feel slightly less embarrassed, himself. “Yeah,” John says breathily. “I’m dying for that. Come on me – come all over my chest.” He puts his hands on Sherlock’s thighs and starts caressing them, urging Sherlock on. 

The light of arousal in John’s face is undeniable, as is the pressure of his erection against Sherlock’s arse, so, trying not to feel too stupid, Sherlock wraps a hand around himself and begins to stroke. He’s extremely hard from what he was doing to John, and while John’s request and obvious interest are helping, he nonetheless feels a bit self-conscious. He’s never so much as admitted autoerotic activity to anyone, much less actually done it in front of them. Then again, John told him once with an air of confession that he loves watching Sherlock play a role for the sake of an investigation, and perhaps this is just another role of sorts. He tries to focus on the pleasure at hand (literally) and remember that John wants this, has fantasised about it. It’s working; luckily he was already so stimulated from rimming John that it’s not as difficult as it would have been. His hand motions gather speed and John is watching intently. Somehow the intensity of his focus is turning out to be more of a stimulant than a deterrent and Sherlock feels himself beginning to leak. When a drop detaches itself and oozes over his fingers, John moans, his hips rolling just enough to rub himself against Sherlock’s arse. Finally Sherlock’s orgasm is nearly upon him and he reaches behind himself to wrap a fist around John, tugging at it hard as he thrusts into his own hand and their orgasm occurs at almost the precise same moment. Sherlock comes gasping, John noisily, his release striping over Sherlock’s back even as Sherlock’s penis erupts in streams over John’s chest. It hits John in the neck and chin as well, though there’s not as much as there might have been if they hadn’t already engaged in intercourse earlier. 

When it’s over, he slides off John and crawls up beside him, feeling sticky and disgusting in the extreme. “I need a shower,” he says, his heart still beating quickly. 

John looks at him for a long minute, then nods. “I was going to say that I need to sleep,” he says. “But I don’t want to waste a moment of this night. I don’t know when we’ll have another one like this, uninterrupted.”

Sherlock thinks of John’s phone and decides not to say anything about it. John can check his messages in the morning, damn it. He’s never had a full night with John before and doesn’t know when or if he will again. “Shower, then,” he says, and pulls John out of bed by the hand, noticing as he passes the phone on the floor that there are several new text messages, all from Mary. John does not notice. 

Afterward they get back into bed and John wraps himself around Sherlock and kisses him repeatedly, and to his own surprise, Sherlock feels his eyelids drooping. He is warm from the shower and very content, if only for the time being. Before he knows it, he is asleep. It doesn’t last long; he wakes after an hour or two, hard again from John’s proximity and needing more than anything to touch him. He slips down John’s unresisting body and takes his penis into his mouth. John wakes a few minutes into it, his back arching, inhaling sharply. He doesn’t protest, just exhales vocally as his penis hardens rapidly in Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock has never done this before and always wanted to try, and is already relishing it deeply when John interrupts him. 

“Sherlock – turn around.” 

Sherlock lifts his head, confused, looking up at John from under the sheets. “What?”

“Turn around,” John repeats, tugging at his hair. “I want to do you at the same time.”

Oh. Sherlock likes this thought and after some awkward rearrangements, John’s mouth closes around his penis and he remembers with a jolt how intensely much he liked this the first time John did it, that night when they were both so drunk. He swallows down his need to moan and puts his mouth back on John. They’re sideways in the bed, curled around each other like commas, John’s hair tickling his thighs. It feels intensely good, if difficult to focus on John’s pleasure while being so thoroughly distracted. Apparently he succeeds, however; John’s penis twitches and then discharges itself abruptly just after John’s hum of warning that buzzes around his flesh. Sherlock very nearly chokes on his mouthful of salty fluid, but there isn’t much there, at least. He keeps sucking until John pulls his hips back in signal that he’s too sensitive now. He twists around again, his mouth on Sherlock the entire while (and _that’s_ an interesting sensation), settling between his thighs to finish him off, Sherlock’s hand in his hair when he finally gets there, fighting the need to pump upwards into the heat of John’s mouth. John falls asleep down there, arms cradling Sherlock’s abdomen, mouth next to his genitals, Sherlock’s legs wound over his back and around his legs. 

The next time Sherlock wakes, John is on top of him again, their erections already rubbing together, and it’s only moments before Sherlock comes this time, John following suit a moment later. It feels hazy, surreal, yet like nothing else he’s ever experienced: paradise. Having John within him and around him and giving/taking/sharing pleasure like he’s never known before. Sherlock’s arms are tight around him, and he knows that surely this will end soon, that something will destroy this, likely John’s conscience. He knows very well that this is the early stages and that John is likely not thinking enough about consequences so much as he’s concerned about how long he’s wanted this, but he will surely come to the conclusion soon enough that this has to end. Likely when his child is born. Every time, therefore, could be the last time. Sherlock’s arms are tight enough to suffocate, but John is neither suffocating nor protesting Sherlock having wrapped himself around him like an octopus, as much of their bodies touching as physically possible. 

They sleep that way, this time not waking until dawn. When Sherlock wakes, John is already getting dressed, and the fact that he woke up ahead of Sherlock feels somehow like a betrayal. “John?” His voice croaks, rough from sleep, or not enough thereof. 

John smiles at him, buttoning his shirt. “Hi,” he says. “I’m sorry – I’ve got to go by the flat and get my things for work. Have a shower and that.”

“You could shower here,” Sherlock says, though he knows it’s an empty protest: John has already decided to leave. 

John finishes with his shirt and comes over to the bed, crawling onto it. “I know,” he says, with a nice smile. “But I really do have to go by anyway, to get my work stuff. Plus my phone died overnight; I need my charger. But I’ll be in touch. Okay?”

He doesn’t have a choice. “Okay,” Sherlock says. It sounds grudging and it is. 

John scoots closer and puts his arms around Sherlock. “It was an amazing night,” he says, with some emotion. “I wish it could be like that more often. That was – it was incredible, Sherlock. I’m going to be thinking about it all day. For days.”

Sherlock wants to say what he knows he cannot say again. “So will I,” he says instead. 

John kisses him, deeply enough to convince Sherlock that he meant what he just said, that the previous night means almost as much to him as it does to Sherlock. “You’re incredible,” he says again after, his hand gripping the side of Sherlock’s face tightly. There’s another quick kiss and then, “I’ve got to go,” he says, releasing Sherlock and getting to his feet. “I’ll be in touch.”

Sherlock waits until he reaches the doorway of the bedroom, then says, “John – ”

John stops. “Yeah?” His tone is too carefully light, damn it. 

Sherlock gets out of bed, fully nude and fully aware that he just masturbated in front of John last night and that levity has no particular place between them now. He pushes John up against the doorframe of the bedroom and kisses him with all of his might, his hands nearly crushing John’s face. John doesn’t protest, his arms around Sherlock’s back, and Sherlock pours all of his frustration, his irrational anger with John for leaving, into it. He puts the words he cannot say, his resentment of Mary and their unborn child, the unfairness of John getting to have both worlds in this arrangement, into it. All things which he cannot say verbally, but he can communicate them nonetheless. He finally releases John, breathing hard and aware that his face is likely flushed with anger. 

John’s eyes are dark, too, the pupils large and his face sober. He understood, then, everything that Sherlock said in the kiss. They stand there for a moment, just looking at each other, and then Sherlock steps back and lets him go. 

(What choice does he have but to let John go?) 

*** 

The whole of the day is silent. Sherlock spends much of it on his blog reading through potential cases and trying not to text John. It’s difficult. He simultaneously hopes that he didn’t communicate too much of his frustration in that last kiss, yet also rebelliously wants John to know. John _should_ know. What right does he have to be happy at all right now, betraying two people to one another? He knows that this is irrational; he has practically begged John to do this, carry on this affair with him. But he genuinely thought that either John wouldn’t, or that he would decide that he needed to be with Sherlock and then leave Mary. The fact that he has never so much as mentioned the notion of leaving Mary bothers Sherlock enormously. 

He sighs, makes himself a sandwich after awhile, leaving the plate for Mrs Hudson to clean eventually. He reads the newspapers and has, without prior intention, a nap on the sofa. He wakes later, bored and irritable. He supposes he could pester Lestrade or Molly for something to occupy his mind with, but can’t be bothered. Is it going to be like this forever? 

Eventually he caves and texts John. _Miss you. Skull’s no replacement for your wit._ It’s lame, but he sends it anyway. John does not answer. Sherlock’s mood darkens. It’s irrational, perhaps, but when John ignores him this way, it feels to him as though it undoes everything that happened between them, makes it meaningless. The flat is silent, the air heavy. The sky outside is the colour of pewter, threatening snow. It won’t snow. It will remain cold and bleak. Tomorrow will be February. 

Sherlock gives up and goes to bed, feeling depressed and lethargic. He changed the sheets after his shower in the morning and gets into the new bedding nude and momentarily glad that he doesn’t have to do it now. He lies awake for an hour, looking at the space that John occupied the previous night and half wondering if it was a hallucination after all. Where is John? What is he doing? Thinking? Is he regretting it already? Sherlock thinks that he cannot bear this, always feeling this way. He knew very well that letting himself get so emotionally entangled was always going to be disastrous, and it is. 

The lock downstairs clicks and Sherlock sits up in bed, his heart racing. He reaches for his phone and jabs at the screen for the time. Past two. There is only one person who would be here now, unless it’s someone come to kill him (in which case it could be several people, really). But no: it’s John’s step on the stairs, heavier than usual. He loses his shoes and coat somewhere on the way to the bedroom, then knocks at the door. “Sherlock?”

His voice is as bleak as Sherlock has felt all day. “Come in,” he says, his heart in his throat. 

John pushes open the door and comes in. He looks ten years older than he did that morning. Sherlock knows immediately that something is very wrong, that something enormous has happened and that it has changed everything. He can feel his pulse pounding in his throat and nearly feels nauseated. He waits for John to speak, fearing whatever might come out of his mouth. He wants to get out of bed, at least be on his feet for this, and although moving feels impossible at the moment, somehow he wrestles the sheet off the bed and around himself and lurches unsteadily to his feet, waiting. 

John closes the door behind him. “I woke you,” he says gruffly. “I’m sorry.”

“That – doesn’t matter,” Sherlock says with difficulty. “John – what – ” He cannot frame his question, doesn’t know what it is. 

John comes over. He pushes at the sheet and Sherlock lets it fall, reluctantly if unresisting. (He wouldn’t resist John, no matter how much more exposed it makes him feel to be naked while John is fully dressed.) “Can I stay?” John asks, his eyes on Sherlock’s upper chest. “I need you.” His eyebrows are making agonised parentheses around his tired eyes and he is avoiding eye contact. 

“Of course,” Sherlock hears himself say, feeling strangely both relieved and no less concerned at the same time. (What is going on? What has happened?) But John is reaching for him, pulling Sherlock up against his clothing, face buried in his shoulder even as his hands grip at Sherlock’s back. “Come to bed,” Sherlock adds, wondering if this is what John wanted but can’t say, for whatever reason. 

“Yes,” John says. “Please.” They undress him together, Sherlock’s eyes devouring each new expanse of skin revealed and they stumble into bed. Sherlock’s penis hardens almost immediately, feeling John against himself, and he feels John’s body responding in kind. They fit together this way so perfect, and yet… Sherlock tries to kiss him but John turns his face away as though he didn’t realise (but is this mere evasion?) and says, his voice low, “I want you to fuck me.”

Sherlock’s mouth immediately fills with saliva. (Interesting reaction. Perhaps he had not previously realised how interested he would be in trying this, he thinks.) “All right,” he says, confused. “But you – before, you never – ”

“I want it. Tonight, that’s all I want. Is that all right?” John’s voice is still tense, his eyes probing Sherlock’s hard for signs of refusal, as though Sherlock disagreeing will absolutely break him. 

Sherlock still doesn’t understand the intensity. “Of course,” he says again, automatically. It sounds hollow. He wishes he understood what’s going on. “Anything.” 

John turns his back to Sherlock, lying on his side. “Don’t be gentle,” he says. “You can go as hard as you want.”

This makes no more sense than anything else. “I don’t want to hurt you,” Sherlock objects, but John doesn’t respond. Feeling dubious, Sherlock reaches for the lubricant and begins to massage the entrance to John’s body, kissing between his shoulder blades, the tops of his shoulders. “Like this? In this position?” he asks, though it seems clear that John has arranged himself this way for this very purpose. 

“If that’s all right.”

“Of course it’s all right. Have you ever – ?” Sherlock wants to know, genuinely not knowing the answer for once. He has no idea what John could have tried before, particularly in Afghanistan. 

“No,” John says briefly. “Never. I mean, by myself, sometimes I… but never with anyone else.” 

“I see.” Sherlock deftly inserts one finger, probing experimentally, the heat of John’s body surprising, though it shouldn’t be. Scientific fact aside, John’s warmth should never surprise him any more. The feeling of having any part of himself inside John, part of John, makes his erection stiffen even further, his entire being wracked with desire for him. “Okay?” 

John makes a sound of affirmation. “Do another,” he says, just shy of an order. 

Sherlock personally feels that a bit more time would do John good; he knows from his own experience that it takes awhile for the sphincter to relax. But John obviously wants it. He is careful with the second finger, moving slowly, allowing for the stretch. “Still okay?”

“Yes. I’m ready. Please. I need you in me,” John says, his voice shaking slightly. 

Sherlock stops, withdrawing his fingers. “John… I wish you would tell me what’s going on,” he says, acknowledging it aloud for the first time. 

“I don’t want to talk about it. I just want this. _Please_ , Sher – I – ” John’s throat closes and the words cut off. 

Sherlock nods, though John can’t see it. “All right,” he says, kissing John’s back again. “All right.” He cups John’s arse with one hand, lifting to make space, then slowly, slowly pushes himself inside. The sensation is beyond anything he has imagined in his many vivid fantasies about John and under different circumstances he would be somewhere between exhilaration and utter rapture, but not like this. The physical sensation is impossible to deny, however. John’s heat is all around him now, clenching around his guilty erection, and Sherlock has to close his eyes for a moment to retain control of himself. His breath is coming shallowly, halfway into John. He breathes and looks down between them and the sight is nearly enough to make him pass out. “Okay?” he gasps, unable to form anything more articulate than that. 

“Yes!” John’s voice sounds pained but firm. “Keep going.”

Sherlock cannot help but obey him, hips jerking forward of their own volition, driving him more deeply into John. He doesn’t stop until he is all the way inside this time, the curves of John’s buttocks resting against his pelvis and hip bones and it feels as though some need that he has carried within himself all his life has finally, finally been met and more than satisfied. Overcome with dizzying emotion, Sherlock closes his eyes again and wraps his free arm around John’s torso, his forehead pressed to John’s back. “You feel like – you’re everything,” he breathes, his entire body trembling, the words unplanned and awkward and nonsensical, but he cannot possibly explain what he meant. He should ask if John is all right, but the words don’t come. 

John answers him anyway, his hand pressing Sherlock’s into his chest. “Keep going,” he requests. “Please.” 

Sherlock nods into his back and starts then, pulling out a bit and thrusting forward again and the pleasure is so intense that he feels that it could dissolve him. He establishes a rhythm and rubs John’s chest as he steadily fucks him (the crude word comes to mind; he cannot escape it). “Is it – how does it feel, for you?” he gets out, his words punctured with ragged pockets of air. “Does it hurt?”

“I want it to,” John says, his body still tight. “Don’t make it feel good. I want it like this.”

This renders Sherlock both confused and angry, both of which tamp down the intense emotion he had been feeling. “What?” he says, his hips still pumping into John, unstoppable now. “That doesn’t even – ”

“Just – focus on yourself, okay?” John’s words are as tight as his back. “Don’t worry about me.”

Sherlock glares at his back, immensely frustrated. “What is _that_ supposed to mean?” 

“Come on,” John pleads. “Just do this – for me, Sherlock. Just fuck me. I don’t care if it hurts.”

He would stop and argue this if he weren’t so shamefully far gone already. Gritting his teeth, Sherlock shifts angles experimentally until John gasps suddenly and he knows he’s found it. He cannot stop himself – perhaps a man with more experience in this could, but he can’t, not when it’s his first time doing this. He reaches down for John’s penis and finds it hard and wet and wanting. He is plunging into John’s body, his own curved around John, spooning him, his penis hard within him, and wraps his hand around John’s to pull at it. John’s body jerks in his arms and he is gasping. His back thrashes against Sherlock as he comes, semen bursting out over Sherlock’s fist, and Sherlock is lost. He buries his face in John’s shoulder and pumps his body full of his own release, his leg wound between John’s and tightening as he does so. The pleasure is extreme, his penis shuddering within John as the orgasm finishes, squeezing the last of it out of him.

And he hates it, hates that it happened like this. What the hell is John playing at? As he regains his breath, the spots clearing from his vision, Sherlock realises that John’s breathing is more than erratic from his orgasm: John is crying. This makes Sherlock feel worse than ever. He pulls his still-twitching penis from John’s body and lets go of him, sitting up against the headboards. He reaches for the sheet on the floor and wraps it around himself again. “Would you mind telling me what the hell is going on?” He sounds as angry as he is. “What _was_ that? What did you just make me do?”

John continues to weep, which Sherlock has never witnessed him do before. It’s thoroughly unsettling. Distressing in the extreme. Finally he says, the words distorted and muffled in the sheets, “I missed it. I missed the birth of my daughter.”

Ice forms coldly in the pit of Sherlock’s belly. “What?” he demands. “When?”

“Last night. It’s why Mary kept calling.” John struggles to regain control of himself. “I missed the entire thing. My phone died in the night, and by the time I got her messages and got to the hospital, it was too late – the baby had been born hours earlier, and I missed the entire thing.”

Sherlock understands immediately. But the information makes him feel no less angry. Is John going to blame this on him, then? For having urged him to stay, urged him to ignore Mary’s calls? “You couldn’t have known,” he says, but his voice sounds dry, wooden. He knows that this won’t make any difference to John. 

“I would have, if I had been there. I feel like – I _am_ the worst person alive.” John gets out of the bed to get a tissue from Sherlock’s dresser, blowing his nose and wiping his eyes. He sits down on the edge of the bed with his back to Sherlock. “Mary made me leave the hospital,” he says dully. “She named our daughter without me, before I got there. And after we fought about that, she made me leave. I didn’t even get to see her. Mary wouldn’t let me stay.”

Sherlock decides not to point out the fact that Mary Morstan does not, in fact, control London’s hospitals. “So you came here instead,” he says flatly. “You used me to punish yourself. That’s why you wanted it to hurt.”

John’s shoulders tense. He doesn’t deny it. “Sherlock…”

Sherlock waits, letting John’s voice fade into silence. A well of bitterness and resentment is dredging up within him and he knows that he cannot keep it to himself. This has to be said, no matter what its effects. “You’ve spent the past two and a half weeks of this affair having it both ways, having your wife and now child, having your marriage intact, and having me on the side without having ever even _contemplated_ the possibility of leaving your wife for me. You don’t love Mary any more. You haven’t loved her since you found out that she shot me, because of whatever I thought you might have felt for me. But whatever that is isn’t strong enough for you to consider choosing me over her. You’ve never chosen me over her. And now you come here to use me as your method of self-flagellation? It’s not _my_ fault you missed the birth of your child, unfortunate as that is. But to use me to punish yourself, on top of everything else?” His fists are clenching in the sheet. “I don’t even know what to say to that, John. I feel as though I practically violated you just now. Why would you do that to me?” 

John turns around, his eyes full of sorrow. “Sherlock – ” He reaches for Sherlock’s knee and stops when Sherlock moves it out of his range. He lets his hand fall, still leaning over the bed toward him. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly. His eyes are red. 

“For which part?” Sherlock’s jaw is tense, his knees drawn up to his chest. 

John shakes his head, taking a long, slow breath which he lets out unsteadily. “All of it. I’m sorry. I didn’t – ”

“Didn’t what?” Sherlock can’t keep the acid from his tone. “Think I was worth leaving Mary for?”

“You know I can’t leave my daughter,” John says angrily. “That’s why I haven’t left Mary. You _know_ that.”

“How would I have known that? It’s not as though you ever said,” Sherlock points out. He feels horribly deflated, horribly disappointed. “So you never had any intention of leaving Mary,” he states flatly. “I was always only going to be a thing you had on the side.”

John’s jaw works, his mouth opening and closing several times, but he doesn’t deny this. 

Cannot, Sherlock thinks, watching him. Suddenly he can’t take it any more. He gets out of bed and goes around it to John’s side where the dresser is, ignoring John as he opens the top drawer and pulls on a pair of underwear, moving as quickly as he can. He needs to get away from John. He moves to the chair where he left the day’s clothing and dresses rapidly, his fingers shaking and fumbling at the buttons and zips. 

“Sherlock,” John says quietly, but no words of explanation or apology come. Just his name, sounding far more familiar than it has any right doing on John’s lips. “Please don’t leave me.” He sounds both agonised and desperate. 

Sherlock shuts his ears to it, rejecting it. He goes to the door of the bedroom, his phone in hand. “I don’t want to see you. I want you to be gone by the time I come back,” he says, and doesn’t wait for a response. In the sitting room he shoulders his way into his coat while stepping into his shoes and John does not come after him.

He gets himself down to the street and plunges blindly into the night. He doesn’t know what time it is. Past three, certainly. He walks and walks and walks until the frigid February air begins to clear his mind a bit. He has not cried, but the hardness in his throat has not gone anywhere. He wants to destroy something. He wants to scream until his throat bleeds. He wants to – he doesn’t even know what he wants to do to John Watson, whether it’s to end him or just punch him until he sees what a heartless asshole he is, or just – never see him again. 

He doesn’t want to see anyone. He has keys to Mycroft’s flat and Molly’s, not that he’s ever used the latter (despite repeated invitations). He ends up choosing the bolthole in Camden Lock for its relative proximity, crawling exhausted into the dusty-smelling bed there close to five in the morning. Only sleep or opiates would provide an adequate (albeit temporary) escape and some part of him still pathetically doesn’t want to disappoint John regarding the latter. Sleep it is. He curls in on himself and wills his mind to stop, to shut out any notion of John whatsoever. Emotional control will return at some point and he will be able to rely on a façade of lack of feeling again later. But not now. Not tonight. 

*** 

When he wakes, it’s close to noon and he feels no better upon remembering the previous night. He can understand it, with some space. He understands why John felt as badly as he did about having missed the birth of his child. Of course. He can understand that John still wanted to be with him, and his personal conflict over still wanting Sherlock that badly and yet needing to punish himself somehow for it. (But he shouldn’t have used me to do it, Sherlock thinks, still unhappy.) The fact that John never intended to leave Mary shouldn’t have been a surprise. He’s told himself from the start that a man of John Watson’s personal integrity could not even have an affair, and yet John has been having an affair. What does that mean? It would be completely irrational and unjust of him to think John morally wanting when he himself has encouraged the affair all along, asked for it openly. Constantly wanted John to be always be giving more, cheating more, deceiving Mary still further. Sherlock frankly doesn’t give a fig for Mary’s feelings on the matter, but John’s sense of integrity is important to both himself and to John. It’s a dilemma: if John cares for him at all, then it would be wrong of him, in one sense, not to give in to his feelings and be with Sherlock in some way. It would be unfair to both himself and to Sherlock. And yet John cannot have an affair. Asking John to leave Mary is a large step worse. But asking John to abandon his infant is unthinkable, and Sherlock has essentially done precisely that. And yet, he’s also right: John could never have expected this arrangement to last forever. What _was_ he thinking? They should have talked about it from the start, Sherlock thinks now, only he never wanted to because he selfishly feared that John would change his mind from the outset and Sherlock wanted to take as much as he was willing to give. 

It was never going to work. And he knew it all along, if he’s honest with himself. Sherlock acknowledges this now in cold sobriety and it feels terrible. He puts his coat and shoes back on, not having bothered undressing to sleep, locks the bolthole behind him, and goes back to Baker Street. Half of him hopes that, despite what he said, and despite what the other half of him hopes, that John is still there. 

He isn’t. Obedient to Sherlock’s dictum, he has gone. There is a note on Sherlock’s pillow. All it says is _I’m sorry_ in John’s hand. Sherlock picks up the note and holds it to his chest, his eyes closed. 

(There is nothing that can fix this.)

*** 

Sherlock moves through life as though in a terrible dream for the next day or two. The singular event that he can remember is John’s text on the second day. It reads: _Can we talk about this? I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. You’re completely right._ Sherlock thinks about it (obsesses, really) for hours, pacing back and forth in front of the windows, and finally writes back. 

_John, I think we both know_  
_that this was never going_  
_to last. You will always_  
_have my friendship. But_  
_you know as well as I do_  
_that this needed to end._

Sherlock’s thumb hesitates for a long moment over the _send_ button, then he presses it. He puts the phone facedown on the desk and sits down, burying his face in his arms. It’s definitely over now. Better, though. Better to just end it officially. And somehow learn to live with it. 

*** 

John does not write back. 

*** 

Mary, on the other hand, does. She texts Sherlock three days later, the tone of her words sounding completely normal. 

_Sherlock! Our little Angela_  
_is waiting to meet her Uncle_  
_Sherlock! Come round for_  
_dinner tomorrow night. John’s_  
_making lasagna and you can_  
_meet our little one! Come around_  
_6 and bring wine! xx_

Sherlock stares at the text for a long time. He has no idea what to say. He cannot begin to imagine going to John and Mary’s flat for dinner, holding their newborn, whose name he has only just learned, watching them be a couple together. Trying to pretend that everything is normal with John. Yet how can he possibly refuse? His best friend has just had a baby; obviously he has a duty to go and meet said infant, celebrate with his friends. His heart feels as though it’s made of lead. He knows that he is a very good actor. Surely he can keep his face wooden. Look at the child whenever his eyes need somewhere to light in place of looking at John. Mary is terribly observant, though. Nearly as much so as he himself is. How can he possibly act normally around John? Perhaps he can plead a difficult case, shield himself in safe lies to excuse any oddities of behaviour outside even his own usual range of oddity. Would Mary be able to detect heartbreak? Is that something she can see? (Can she see it in John, or are her sleepless nights as a new mother blurring her observational skills? Is John even projecting it, or has he already accepted this new reality?) Resentment burns low in Sherlock’s gut again. He doesn’t respond to the text. 

Two hours later, John texts. 

_Look, I know Mary’s invited_  
_you for dinner. I just wanted_  
_to say that I hope you’ll come._  
_I know how things are but if_  
_we’re still friends then I want_  
_you to meet my daughter. It’s so_  
_important to me. Please come._

And then, while Sherlock is still staring at this, feeling hollow, a second text arrives. 

_Please. I need to see you._

Sherlock’s fingers clench around his phone. He texts Mary back rather than John. _I’ll be there. Red or white?_

Mary sends back a flurry of emoticons and the word _White!_

Sherlock turns off his phone and passes the rest of the day on the sofa staring at the ceiling. 

*** 

It’s as bad as he thought it would be. No: even worse. He stands outside the flat for ten minutes before actually ringing the bell. Mary comes to answer it, beaming at him through the door as though nothing is wrong on her side, either. Very well: she is going to pretend and so is he. The only difference is that he knows very well that John was not with her as she gave birth to their daughter, whereas she presumably would _not_ have invited him for dinner if she suspected he’d been having an affair with her husband. 

“Sherlock!” The smile is too wide, though there are bags under her eyes. Her arms are flung out. 

He suffers himself to be kissed on the cheek and thrusts the obligatory bottle of orvieto classico at her. Mary prefers chardonnay, he knows. He therefore did not purchase a chardonnay. Besides which, she said John was making lasagna. Therefore: Italian wine. “I brought wine,” he says, trying not to sound too curt. 

“Perfect,” Mary says, accepting it. “That’s lovely. Come in, come in! She’s sleeping right now but you have to meet her!”

“I don’t want to wake her,” Sherlock says, following Mary unwillingly into the flat. 

She brushes this off. “She’ll sleep right through it. Don’t think you’re getting off the baby holding hook!”

“I presume I’ll have many such opportunities for the next eighteen months or thereabouts,” Sherlock objects, but only because it’s expected. He sees John in the sitting room out of his peripheral vision and turns his back, spending as much time as possible taking off his coat. This is terrible. He does _not_ want to see John in the slightest. He should not have come. He should have invented any excuse. The truth is that he knows that some small, pathetic part of him is yearning to see John and that nothing he does will ever kill this particular thing. He closes his eyes for a moment, then straightens his suit jacket and turns around. _Into battle, then_. 

John is sitting in an armchair with the newspaper, which he folds and puts down on the coffee table when Sherlock comes in. “Hello,” he says, his tone falsely bright, the cheer obviously forced over something very tight and controlled just beneath the surface. 

“Hello,” Sherlock says, willing the word to come out and avoiding eye contact. 

Mary doesn’t notice. “Look!” she crows, plucking a sleeping infant out of a bassinet and bringing her to Sherlock. “This is Angela. Isn’t she beautiful?”

Sherlock is clearly expected to take the baby, as Mary is holding it out to him, so he grudgingly accepts it, arranging it the correct way. “She looks like a baby,” he says, as he’s expected to make a comment in response to Mary’s question. He forces a smile to make it seem like a joke. It feels like a grimace. 

“Who do you think she looks like?” Mary wants to know, as though they are the best of chums, as though she never shot him in the heart. He wishes she were on the other side of the room, and that he were not in it at all. 

He considers the question seriously, searching for some feature of John’s in the child’s face, fiercely wanting to hate this proof of their combined DNA, of the fact that they once loved each other in a way in which John will never love him. He finds he cannot, however. He cannot hate this tiny, helpless, useless being, hardly conscious or self-aware. But he cannot detract a single trace of John in her face. She has Mary’s nose already (unfortunate) and something of Mary’s eyebrow structure. Definitely Mary’s mouth, which he prefers on a baby, but then, he is somewhat biased when it comes to Mary. “She looks like you,” he says flatly. Part of him wanted to tell her that the baby looks like John and John alone and squelch her smug glee. He knows that women purportedly always want the child to look like themselves. In this case, unfortunately, he cannot lie. The baby _does_ look like Mary, as far as it resembles anything more specific than a newborn at all. 

Mary is delighted with his answer. “Doesn’t she?” She chuckles. “You can’t see her eyes, but they’re just like mine, too.”

“They’ll likely change colour in the next few weeks,” John says from his chair, sounding a touch sour. 

His sourness bothers Sherlock even further, though it’s quite understandable. Mary ignores it. “No, they’ll stay blue, just like mine,” she states categorically. 

“For God’s sake, Mary, put her down,” John says irritably. “She’s sleeping and Sherlock hates children. Don’t force him to hold her.”

Sherlock makes himself smile, though it hurts his jaw. “I don’t hate all children,” he tells Mary. “Just most of them.”

She smiles at him and takes the child back, and he detects something weary in her face. “Sorry,” she says under her breath. “John hasn’t got a lot of sleep lately.”

“Sorry,” John echoes gruffly, taking the obvious social cue from his wife. He gets up, comes over and smiles down at his child in Mary’s arms. “Still sleeping, eh?” he says to Mary, and she agrees, looking at him gratefully. So: all has been forgiven, then. John takes the baby and lays her carefully back in the bassinet. He straightens up, skates an awkward smile over Sherlock’s face without quite meeting his eyes, then clears his throat. “I’ll, er, just go and get the salad together.”

The kitchen adjoins the sitting room without a door, so John is still entirely within hearing range as Mary points Sherlock to the sofa and asks, “So, how are you these days? Haven’t seen you much lately.”

“I’m fine,” Sherlock says automatically, tonelessly. “Busy. Lots of work.”

“You had a big case on recently,” Mary says. “Lots of stake-outs.”

“Yes.” Sherlock briefly wonders what details John has invented about the case for Mary’s benefit. He decides to steer the conversation in a slightly different direction, inventing a new case. “I’ve just started on something else now that that one’s finished.”

“Oh?” Mary’s syllable is eloquent. “I would have thought you would need a break after all the late nights with the last one.” 

(No, Sherlock doesn’t say. I’ve spent the past few days doing nothing whatsoever but pining for your husband.) “No.” It’s brief. “One case is over; on to the next.”

“So what is it this time?” Mary curls up with her legs beneath her on the sofa opposite. 

“Can’t say yet,” Sherlock says swiftly. “Could be dangerous for you to know.” Mary’s snort shows what she thinks of this fib, and suddenly Sherlock is tired of shadow-boxing with her. He changes the subject again. “How are you doing?” he asks, as though he cares in the slightest, which he doesn’t. She tried to kill him, damn it. “Sleeping enough?” 

She shrugs and the shadows under her eyes seem to deepen. “Here and there. It’s better than I expected. Of course, the birth itself was… difficult, for several reasons.”

In the kitchen, John drops something (pot lid, Sherlock thinks). “Sorry,” he calls. “Uh, I think everything’s about ready. Why don’t the two of you sit down?” 

_The two of you_ , Sherlock thinks, repeating the words in his head. _The two of you that I deceive. The two of you that I lo –_ No. Sherlock stops the thought. John has never claimed to love him. He gets to his feet and wonders how on earth he can feign an appetite. He normally loves John’s lasagna – John used to make it just to tempt him to eat when Sherlock was being difficult about that – but today loving it will only serve to make it less palatable. He pulls out a chair and sits down robotically. 

Mary puts herself at the head of the table, meaning that John will be across from him. Splendid. Perfect. (Torture.) She pours Sherlock a glass of orvieto and fills her own and John’s glasses. John brings in the lasagna, wearing oven mitts and looking hopelessly domestic. Sherlock thinks unwillingly of all the times he privately thought that John looked hysterically, uncharacteristically cute in oven mitts at Baker Street. John is not “cute”; John is solid, reliable, competent, deadly, a healer, eminently, satisfyingly masculine: therefore John in oven mitts, John doing anything domestic, which he does, and frequently, still affords Sherlock with a sense of amusement and endearment. Now it only serves to strike him with a pang of loss and resentment and grief so bitter he thinks he could choke on it. He averts his eyes. 

Mary serves him salad and Sherlock is made to feel like a child. Somehow, before the wedding, he never felt like a child when the three of them were at Baker Street, but every time he visited their flat, Mary takes to mothering him. Strange juxtaposition for a woman who tried to kill him, he’s always thought. He hates it when other people serve him food, unless it’s John. John never demeans when he does it, whereas everything that Mary does feels demeaning. He waits for John to stop slicing the lasagna and sit down, then lifts his glass. “To the birth of your child,” he says emotionlessly. A lesser man would say something about the experience of witnessing it or some such thing to subtly remind everyone present that John did not, in fact, experience it. To his credit, he says nothing of the sort. 

“To Angie,” Mary repeats fondly, and Sherlock instantly hates the nickname. 

John simply lifts his glass. Their eyes meet very briefly, for the first time, as Sherlock goes through the pantomime of clinking his glass to John’s. Sherlock can’t say which of them looks away first. It was bad enough; his heart is pounding, his hands sweating. Mary serves him a slice of lasagna and Sherlock looks at it and feels ill. He stabs at his salad and makes himself eat a mouthful. John has made the dressing they always used to make at Baker Street. This increases his resentment. Does John always make it for Mary, or did he deliberately make it for Sherlock? Either way, he should have stuck to something out of the bottle, Sherlock thinks with resentment stinging his cheeks like a slap. 

A strangely unbreakable silence descends over the dinner table. Sherlock does not try to force the conversation; he considers the fact of his presence well above the call of duty as it is. After a lengthy, weighted silence, the baby wakes and begins to cry. “Oh, sorry,” Mary says, and gets up to go to her, leaving John and Sherlock alone together at the table. 

John’s eyes remain in his plate. Sherlock takes a moment to subtly glance at him. The cessation of their short-lived (if intense) affair has hit them both harder than expected, he thinks. Well: it was no surprise to _him_. John looks as though he’s barely slept, on the other hand. 

John seems to feel Sherlock’s gaze on him. He looks up suddenly, catching Sherlock’s eyes. His cheeks flush and he swallows visibly, reaching for his wine. 

“I knew I shouldn’t have come,” Sherlock says, very quietly. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” John says, equally quietly, looking away. “We wanted you to come.”

 _We_. The word is like a barb. This is worse than ever. Sherlock grinds his teeth together and makes himself eat another bite of lasagna. John’s put a lot of parmesan in the sauce, exactly the way he knows Sherlock likes it. He can barely swallow it without wanting to gag. 

Mary comes back, apologising. “I might have to go and nurse a bit after dinner,” she says. “I’m still getting the hang of this. It’s hard to tell whether she’s hungry or wet, or what.” 

Sherlock clears his throat and touches his serviette to his mouth and ignores this. Perhaps if Mary hadn’t shot him, he would be more sympathetic to the struggles of her newly maternal duties, he thinks sourly. Perhaps if she wasn’t married to the one man he could ever love on top of that. He decides to change the subject abruptly, calling attention to something he noticed the instant he sat down. “Wasn’t there a framed photograph of the two of you on the wall just there?” he asks Mary, pointing to the place where said picture used to exist. 

The tension in the room is instantly palpable. Mary manufactures a smile after a moment, and it’s forced. “There was,” she says. “It got destroyed. There was a little accident.”

Interesting. “Oh?” Sherlock says politely, subtly demanding an explanation. 

Mary’s smile freezes in place. “John… was in a bit of a temper the other day,” she says. “Not sure what it was about.” The set of her teeth says otherwise. 

Probing would be fun another day, but Sherlock suddenly finds that he isn’t in the mood. “I see,” he says blandly. 

Mary rallies, swirling the wine in her glass. “Interesting grape, orvieto,” she says. “I haven’t drunk it much before. Do you know a lot about Italian wines, Sherlock?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “Not all that much,” he says. “The orvieto is often paired with seafood or alfredo sauces, but then, lasagna would normally be served with a red wine. I was improvising,” he says, “since you wanted me to bring a white.”

“I like it,” John volunteers, his voice barely audible. 

Mary looks at John for a long moment. “It’s interesting, isn’t it,” she comments lightly. “A bit fruity.”

“Yes,” Sherlock says. “And known for its bitter aftertaste.” The silence that follows his words is heavy. Suddenly Sherlock cannot take the witty repartee any more. “Excuse me.” He puts his fork down and gets up, needing to exit the room, get away from Mary and John and the conversation entirely. He makes his way into the bathroom and shuts the door, leaning against the counter, his head dropped forward. He should not have come. It was a terrible idea. He cannot possibly mask his feelings for John or his anguish over the entire break, and having to play at being friends with Mary on top of it is simply too much. He stands where he is, listening to himself breathe through his mouth, his exhalations shaking. He will not cry, damn it. But it’s too much. It was too soon to see John again. 

Outside in the sitting room, the baby is crying again. Perfect, Sherlock thinks drearily, looking at himself in the mirror. He realises then that he looks as bad as John and Mary do, wrinkles under his eyes, his face paper-pale with a greyish cast. He swallows and tries to suppress the surge of empathy the baby’s crying is provoking in him. He needs to leave. 

There is a knock at the door. “Sherlock?” John’s voice is low, his mouth very close to the door. “Are you all right in there?”

“Fine,” Sherlock says stonily. 

“Are you – can I come in?” John sounds horribly unsure of himself and Sherlock hates it. He likes John full of confidence, retorting at everyone around him. Not this meek, apologetic creature cringing outside the door. John _deserves_ to cringe and they both know it, but that doesn’t mean that Sherlock has to prefer him that way. 

He doesn’t answer the question and after a moment, John evidently decides to just do it. He opens the unlocked door a sliver, then comes in, closing the door rapidly behind him. He stays there for a moment, looking at Sherlock in the mirror. Their eyes meet. 

“What do you want?” Sherlock asks, his voice dull and slightly strained, still leaning forward over the counter. 

“What I’ve always wanted,” John says, the words low and intense. “What I’ll always want. You.”

He comes over and puts his hand on Sherlock’s arm. Sherlock twitches it away, turning away from the mirror to face John, opening his mouth to snarl something, but he doesn’t get the chance. John puts both hands on Sherlock’s face and draws it down, kissing him fiercely, passionately, and for several moments, Sherlock is helpless to resist it, kissing back with a hunger so voracious he feels he could swallow John whole. But this cannot be. He detaches himself, plucking John’s hands off his face. “ _No_ ,” he says emphatically. “ _Don’t_ do that to me. I – can’t. I can’t do this.”

He pushes past John and gets himself out of the bathroom (how would _that_ look, if Mary caught them snogging in there like schoolboys? Only it’s worse than that: they’re a pair of grown men and desperately emotional on top of it. She’d likely shoot the pair of them) and goes to the door. Mary is sitting on the sofa, breast-feeding with a throw over one shoulder. He has to say something. “Sorry,” he says inadequately. “Must go. I can’t – sorry.”

Mary looks past him to John, her face clouded with suspicion. “What’s going on?” she demands.

John’s jaw tightens. “It’s none of your concern, Mary. Sherlock – ”

“No,” Sherlock says, stepping into his shoes, and he pulls the door open and leaves. 

This time John does follow him. Sherlock has already made it four or five houses when he hears John calling his name, pelting after him in pursuit. He doesn’t stop walking until John is closing in, then gives up and turns around, his hands deep in his coat pockets, his face and jaw set. He waits, noticing for the first time that it has finally begun to snow after having only threatened it for days now. Weeks. 

“Don’t do that,” John says angrily. “Don’t walk away from me. Don’t you know _anything_ yet? I’m in _love_ with you, and you just – ”

Sherlock goes completely still. John said it: the impossible word. “I just what?” he asks, with difficulty. His heart is in his mouth, an obstacle to speak around. 

“Don’t _leave_ me!” John’s fists ball at his sides. “Do you have any idea what it’s been like, these past couple of weeks? Or months? Or years? Sherlock – I’ve been in love with you for a very long time. And I _know_ it’s my fault that I fucked up the timing of all of it – getting engaged to Mary right before you dropped back into my life, getting her pregnant just before she shot you, having had to go back and all that. But what was I supposed to do? Just abandon my child to a professional killer?” 

Sherlock is overwhelmed with frustration. “ _No_ ,” he says emphatically. “I never thought that you, of all people, would do that. And I never asked you to. But people get divorced without leaving their children behind, without asking the people they supposedly love to always take second place, to share them with their other partners. And I never knew that you loved me. You never said that. Not ever. How was I supposed to know it was more than just – I don’t know, a bit of guilty fun on the side for you?”

John’s mouth drops open. “How was I supposed to tell you that? How did I _not_ tell you that, every time I chose to be with you instead of where I was supposed to be? How could you not have got that from every time I ever kissed you or touched you? I was already the one risking his entire marriage and family life and all that to be with you – and I _couldn’t not do it_ , couldn’t keep myself from you, from being with you. Despite knowing it was wrong, despite knowing how it could have jeopardised everything else in my life, despite having tried to retain some shred of integrity ever since you came back – doesn’t any of that count for anything to you? Doesn’t it tell you how I feel?”

“ _No_ ,” Sherlock says forcefully, though he does feel some chagrin. He holds stubbornly to his point regardless. “Not necessarily. Words _matter_. Saying it is important. I never said it because I thought you didn’t feel the same way. I couldn’t be the only one saying it, though one could argue that it was just as evident in my own, unprecedented actions. You know I’ve never been with anyone the way I’ve been with you. And I appreciate the risks you’ve taken, but you never said anything, _ever_ , about the possibility of one day choosing me over Mary in a practical sense, not just an emotional one.”

“Okay, stop,” John says. He isn’t wearing a jacket and he’s beginning to shiver. “We’re going in circles. Let’s start this conversation over again. Sherlock Holmes, tell me once and for all: do you love me?” 

Sherlock’s hearts shifts into his throat and suddenly he has to swallow and can’t do it. “More than anything,” he says, and it comes out hoarsely. _Not_ the way he’d imagined finally saying it to John. He tries again. “Yes. I love you.” 

“I love _you_ ,” John says. He takes a deep breath, his fists still clenched in anger, too stubborn to use his arms to warm himself. “And I would do anything to keep from losing you again.”

Sherlock makes a gesture of exasperation. “What does that actually _mean_ , though, John? Does that mean that you’ll say it once, now, and then we go back to sneaking around and trying to keep it a secret, with you ignoring my texts half the time because you’re busy with Mary and your child and me on my own halfway across the city from you?”

“No. That’s not what I mean at all.” John comes closer, closing the gap between them. His eyes are dark and pained, the lines around his mouth deep. “These past few days have been among the worst of my life. I haven’t felt so awful since I thought you had died. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do about my marriage, but I will do whatever it takes in order to be with you. All right?” 

Sherlock swallows, getting lost in John’s eyes. “Promise?” he asks, searching them, and half-expecting John to tell him that it’s not fair to ask him to make this promise. But for once, his fears are unfounded. 

John nods. “Yeah,” he says, his voice cracking on the word. “Promise.” He comes closer still but stops, his shoulders hunched defensively, as though not sure whether or not Sherlock is still angry. This time Sherlock is the one to make the first move, reaching for him, and John steps into his arms with obvious relief, the same relief that is resounding throughout Sherlock’s entire being. He thought he had lost this forever. John still feels achingly familiar to his arms, the only person who ever fit there, belonged there. His lover. His partner. His John. Sherlock’s eyes are closed and it feels as though the street around them is spinning, John’s cheek pressed into his own. Nothing else matters. He doesn’t even care whether Mary comes out of the flat looking for John. It doesn’t matter. Because today, of all days, John Watson has finally chosen him. They stand there, holding one another as tightly as possible, until John pulls his face back just enough to put his mouth on Sherlock’s, and they kiss and kiss and kiss, not caring who could see them. 

After awhile, Sherlock unbuttons his coat with difficulty – John is pressed to him like a magnet – and pulls it around him. “You’re shivering,” he says, and it’s true: John is shaking like a leaf. The falling snow has begun to collect in his hair, too. 

John’s eyes are damp as he smiles into Sherlock’s face. “It’s at least half emotion,” he says. “Or relief, maybe. God, Sherlock.” His arms are locked around Sherlock’s back under the coat, their bodies so close that it’s hard to actually look each other in the eye. “Let’s never do that again, okay?” John says wistfully. 

“Agreed. That was awful,” Sherlock says honestly, and John’s arms tighten around him. 

They kiss again and again, there in the middle of the pavement on John’s quiet, suburban street. Finally they part and John puts his head on Sherlock’s shoulder. “So what do we do now?” he asks quietly, the same question they’ve been asking one another since this started. 

Sherlock thinks about it for a long moment. “It’s up to you,” he says cautiously. “It’s your marriage. Your child.”

“Angela is the most difficult part,” John says, his voice pained. “She’s only five days old. How can I _possibly_ leave now?” 

“Perhaps you and Mary can come to some sort of arrangement,” Sherlock says. “Maybe it will mean staying here for awhile longer, for the sake of the baby. But I think you have to come clean about this if we’re going to continue.”

“There are no ‘ifs’,” John says firmly. “I love you and I’m not giving this up. I can’t. Maybe that makes me a terrible person, but – I’ve loved you almost since the start, I think. It’s too much to ask me to be a paragon of virtue about this. I’ve been trying to for the past few days and I just can’t do it. It was killing me.”

Sherlock kisses the top of his head. “It was killing you the other way, too,” he says, trying to keep the words gentle. “You weren’t meant to be a liar or a cheater. You’re not that kind of person.”

“All evidence to the contrary,” John says glumly. “Don’t argue it, Sherlock. I am. But you’re right: I’ll have to tell Mary.” He pauses. “Would you… consider coming with me, when I do it? It would be easier, if you were there with me.”

“Of course,” Sherlock tells him, and privately wonders if John is concerned about the potential violence of Mary’s reaction. Perhaps he should alert Mycroft. He pulls his coat and arms tighter around John, a snowflake in John’s hair melting against his lower lip. He closes his eyes and loves John harder than ever. “Anything.”

*** 

In the end, he goes back to Baker Street alone and leaves John to do his best to convince Mary that they had had a fight that John had wanted to resolve, which is not entirely untrue. John wants to consult a lawyer about his potential custody rights before they speak to Mary, so it ends up taking another three days before it can happen. 

John comes to Baker Street at eleven in the morning and it’s the first time that Sherlock has seen him since the disastrous dinner at John and Mary’s flat, though they’ve texted a lot. His face smiles stupidly at John when John walks in and John grins back. “Hi,” he says, taking off his shoes. 

“Hi,” Sherlock says in return, and it’s the most commonplace thing to say, but he doesn’t care. His chest feels as though it could implode as John comes over to kiss him, and for once it’s gentle. Not like those tempestuous, stormy, violent kisses at the beginning, the need and demand so sharply wanting that they could have torn one another apart in searching for its satisfaction. This kiss feels like being in the June sunshine in Regent’s Park, John’s warmth of body and being visceral, soaking into his skin, and Sherlock is basking in it, finally feeling almost secure in it. He knows they’re not out of the woods yet. Things with Mary could go very badly indeed. John could lose custody of the baby and be utterly crushed. Mary could have her gun on her and react on instinct, out of anger. She could say things to John that could make him change his mind. (Surely not. Please, no.) But anything is possible. 

John withdraws gently, staying close. “I missed you,” he says, smiling, and touches Sherlock’s face with his thumb. 

“It was a long three days,” Sherlock agrees. “Should we go now?” 

“Are you in a hurry?” 

“I’d like to get it over with,” Sherlock admits. “The sooner it’s finished, the sooner we’ll know what’s happening – whether you’re staying there or moving back in, or what, exactly. I just want to know.” 

“That makes two of us,” John admits. “But before we go, there’s something I wanted to ask you.”

“Oh. All right.” Sherlock waits, not sure what to expect. 

John takes both his hands and a deep breath, and Sherlock notices for the first time that John isn’t wearing his wedding band any more. “Look,” he says, looking down at their hands. “I know I’ve made a lot of mistakes in this. From the very start. You knew I was hitting on you that very first time we ever had dinner, and I was, and I denied it. And since then I’ve done nothing but deny it and hurt you over and over again without even realising it. I want to change all that.”

He pauses, as though for breath, and Sherlock inserts, “But you have. You chose me.”

John looks up at him and smiles, as though in relief. “Yeah,” he says. “I did. After all this time, I finally did. And I want you to know that I meant that. I don’t know what’s going to happen today or what that’s going to mean for our lives for the next little while or even the next few years, but I need to say this now, so that you _know_ , without a doubt, that I’m absolutely sure about this, sure about you. About us.” He stops again. Then, still holding Sherlock’s hands, he slowly gets down on one knee. 

“Oh no,” Sherlock says, his eyes widening in disbelief. “John. You’re not – ”

“Shut up, Sherlock,” John says, shaking his head, though he’s smiling. “Yes. I am. I won’t ask it if you don’t want me to, but I want you to know that I have no intention of spending the rest of my life with anyone other than you. I know that I’m still married and that this is somewhat premature. I know that and I don’t give a toss. You don’t have to promise me anything, but I need to say this: I love you, and I’m yours. For good.”

Sherlock finds that he is not capable of speech. He feels as though he’s received a blow to the solar plexus, jolting all the words from his skull. His knees come over weak, so instead of pulling John to his feet as he’d intended, he lowers himself to the carpet and hears himself say something vaguely resembling John’s name, pulling his hands from John’s so that he can put his arms around him, clinging like a drowning cat. 

John gives an unsteady laugh, holding him just as tightly. “That sounded like a yes,” he says into Sherlock’s hair. “Please tell me it was.”

“Yes,” Sherlock says, his face mashed against John’s neck. “Yes. _Yes_.

John laughs in some combination of relief and delight and pulls Sherlock down onto him, kissing him and running his hands over Sherlock’s body and soon enough they’re both hard and trying to climb into each other’s skin in spite of their clothes. Their fingers fumble jointly at buttons and zips and in the end that’s all they manage, to rub themselves together there on the floor. And it’s different this time, Sherlock thinks, because the fear is gone. The desperate thought that this will disappear like a soap bubble at any given moment is gone. John is his (for good, he said) now. And it _will_ be good. John is breathing against his mouth, his breath hot on Sherlock’s chin and he comes first, his back arching up from the hard floor. Sherlock catches most of it in his hands so that it doesn’t get on their clothes and John is apologising breathily and scrambling out from under Sherlock and getting to his feet to grab for a tissue from the desk and returning before Sherlock can even protest his absence. He scoops the mess out of Sherlock’s hand, then guides Sherlock onto his back. “Less messy this way,” he says, eyebrows quirking, and Sherlock understands at once. 

“Oh God, please,” he says, beyond caring how needy it sounds, and John obliges him, his mouth sliding hotly over Sherlock’s already-leaking erection. It only takes a few more minutes, but they are intensely, keenly _good_ minutes as John’s mouth plunges down over him. Sherlock cries out far more loudly than he intended to as he comes, thrusting up into John’s mouth and then filling it with his release. He can feel John swallowing, his soft palate and tongue tightening over the head of Sherlock’s penis as it spurts again, and he swallows that, too, not releasing Sherlock until his wilting erection begins to twitch in aftershocks. John crawls up and deposits himself on top of Sherlock, kissing his neck and chest and then his panting mouth, too. 

“Think of this,” he says, stroking Sherlock’s hair back from his forehead. “This could be us, every day, for the rest of our lives.”

“It _will_ be us,” Sherlock corrects him, a fresh burst of joy blooming in his chest. “I said yes.”

John’s smile is heartbreakingly lovely, his eyes so expressive and full of emotion that it makes Sherlock’s chest squeeze almost painfully. “That you did,” he agrees. “I’ll hold you to it, you know.”

Sherlock wonders how life could have gone from being so terrible to so incredibly good in such a short space of time. “Good,” he says, and it is. 

*** 

John is holding his hand when they go up the front steps outside the flat. Sherlock lets go when John fits his key to the lock, however. There is no need to provoke Mary’s anger unnecessarily. 

The flat is quiet inside. Sherlock follows John, neither of them making any sound. John stops in the doorway of the sitting room, so abruptly that Sherlock nearly walks into him. He sees immediately why: there are two people in the sitting room creating a tableau of seeming domestic bliss. Mary is locked in an embrace with her ex-boyfriend David Pinkham, the baby cradled between them. They each have one arm around the other and one holding the baby, their hands overlapping beneath her. Sherlock understands at once, instinctively, though he could be wrong. It would make so much sense, though, that Mary hadn’t protested more that John had missed so much of the pregnancy during the six months that they hadn’t spoken, when John was living at Baker Street again. (Oh, please, he thinks. It would make everything so much easier for John, despite the inevitable initial difficulty.) 

John clears his throat. Startled, David and Mary break apart. David shifts the baby into his own arms and holds her to his chest, protectively. “Hello David,” John says evenly. His voice is surprisingly calm, Sherlock thinks. Perhaps he has already deduced the entire situation, then. John nods at the infant. “I see you’ve met our daughter.” 

“Or, if I could rephrase that,” David says coolly, “I see you’ve met _our_ daughter.”

(Aha. Sherlock feels a surge of vindication.) 

John nods slowly, then looks at Mary. “And you were never going to tell me,” he states. 

Mary shrugs. “I thought you had guessed. She doesn’t look an ounce like you.”

“I know,” John says, still very calmly. “So.” He looks back and forth between them. “This is happening, then, is it?” 

“Yeah,” David tells him defiantly, his chin lifting a little. “I’d say you missed your chance, mate. You weren’t even there for Angela’s birth.” 

“But you were,” Sherlock puts in, watching David’s face keenly. 

David’s eyes skitter away from his, clearly still afraid of him, which pleases Sherlock enormously. “Yeah,” he says to John instead. “I was. And besides, we’ve known for months. Who do you think went with Mary to all of her appointments while you were off doing whatever you were doing, anyway?” 

John shakes his head. “So the only question is, why didn’t you tell me?” he asks Mary. He jerks his chin in David’s direction. “If this was going on, why did you even want to get back together?” 

Mary’s voice is extremely cool. “David came with me as a friend, for support.” She does not address the other part of his question. 

“At least until you did a paternity test,” Sherlock inserts. His eyes cut to David. “When did you insist on that? How long into the pregnancy?” 

“The seventh month,” David says. Mary looks at him accusingly, making an exasperated sound, and he makes a defensive gesture. “What? It’s true! And I _am_ the father!”

John clears his throat. “So when did you start cheating on me, then?” he asks Mary. “Only before we were married, or after that, too?” 

“Just the once,” Mary says, her eyes narrowing. “And I’d be careful with this line of questioning if I were you. You don’t have a leg to stand on and we all know it.”

Her American accent is stronger now than it sometimes is, Sherlock notes. Interesting. He waits, wondering if John will deny this. 

He doesn’t. “How did you know?” he asks, still very evenly. 

Mary rolls her eyes. “Oh, please,” she says sarcastically. “As if it wasn’t obvious enough with your mood swings ever since we got back together, and then moping around like your dog had died when it ended, though I see you’ve worked that out. And you could have cut the tension in the air the other night, and you making Sherlock’s beloved lasagna, with extra parmesan when you know I hate it, as if that could bring him back. It was pretty obvious.”

“Well, I don’t see any need to drag this out,” John says, still pleasantly enough. “We came by to come clean about our relationship and discuss custody arrangements, but I see that that’s a moot point.” He hesitates, then looks at David. “Perhaps I have no right to ask this,” he says, “but for the past eight days, I did believe her to be mine. Would you mind if I just – said goodbye?” 

Their eyes meet and for a moment Sherlock thinks that David is going to refuse. But he wavers and then agrees, his chin dropping in a curt nod. John goes over and takes the baby, arranging her carefully in his arms and looking down at her, turning away from Mary and David. Only Sherlock can see the tears that come into his eyes as he looks down at the child he had thought his own. What is he thinking as he looks at her now, Sherlock wonders. Does he only see Mary’s face, as Sherlock did? John bends and kisses her on the forehead. “Goodbye,” he says, very softly. He blinks hard, then straightens up and gives her back to David. His posture has gone military. “I’ll send movers for my things,” he tells Mary. 

She nods. “Fine.” Her voice is very even, too. 

John pauses. “Is that… all you have to say to me?” 

Mary studies him for a moment, her headed tilted in that slightly reptilian way she has. “Yes,” she says simply. “It’s been over for months, wouldn’t you agree?”

“As of the night you shot Sherlock, yes,” John agrees, his voice hardening, eyes drying. 

Mary’s eyes shift to meet Sherlock’s for a moment, and they’re hard. “Precisely.”

John nods, exhales, then says, “Right. That’s it, then. Goodbye.” He turns away from them again, takes Sherlock’s hand in front of them, and leads him out of the flat. 

He doesn’t let go outside. Sherlock isn’t quite sure how to proceed, what to say. Clearly John must be feeling quite a number of things at once. The worst part is about the child, but even the relative ease of the abrupt ending of his marriage could be troublesome. Though Mary is right; the marriage has in essence been over since the night John found out that it was Mary’s bullet in his heart. “Are you… you’re not all right,” he says finally, about half a block from the flat. 

John doesn’t answer for a moment, still walking, but then he shakes his head. “No. Not really.”

Sherlock feels his lips compress and wishes he were less useless at knowing what to say at times like these. He knows that none of this is his fault, that it wasn’t he who made Mary cheat with David, that the baby still wouldn’t have been John’s even if their affair had never taken place, but still. “I’m sorry,” he says eventually, wincing inwardly at its inadequacy. 

John intertwines his fingers with Sherlock’s. “Don’t be,” he says. “I’ll be okay. It’s a bit of a shock right now, but give it some time. I’ll be fine.”

Sherlock stops in front of John, facing him. “Are you sure?” he asks, very seriously. “I can’t imagine what you’re feeling right now.”

John struggles for words for a moment or two. “About Angela – that’s hard. That’s really hard. But it also simplifies everything, in a way. It doesn’t make it hurt less that I’ve lost her, but if she was never mine – and I think I suspected, on some level. I don’t know. Maybe I’m just colouring it backwards, but – either way, it’s going to be okay, eventually. I’m just glad in the end that it was such a short discussion. Mary obviously already knew about you and I, and she had her own thing going on with David, so they’ll be fine. And we’ll be more than fine. We have a whole new start ahead of us, and I’m actually deliriously happy about that, even if I’m having a slightly difficult moment at the moment.”

Sherlock searches his face. “Sure?” he asks. “Positive?” He hesitates, then says it. “No regrets?” 

“Not a one,” John says. He smiles then, and it’s as though the sun has come out. He puts his arms around Sherlock’s waist and his mouth on Sherlock’s for a long, intensely good moment. “Come on,” John says after, his eyes moving from Sherlock’s lips to his eyes and smiling into them, and despite the sadness lingering around his eyes, there’s something deeply happy there, too. “Take me home.”

“Okay,” Sherlock agrees. John takes his hand again as they start walking. A weight seems to have lifted from both of them, one that’s been there since this started, and it changes everything. It’s February but suddenly it feels as though spring can’t be all that far off. Winter will end, spring will come, and John is coming home to stay at last: the impossible has finally become the possible. Sherlock feels as though he could practically break apart for sheer joy. “Yes,” he says, reiterating just because he can. “Let’s go home.”

*


End file.
